Tha Great Escape

One month on...

2010-06-09T16:54:00.000+10:00

There once was a balloon boy who attended a balloon school. All his classmates were ballons, as were the teachers, the buildings and even the furniture inside. One day the balloon boy brought a pin into school. His teacher discovered it and sent him to the headmaster ,who sat him down and told him, "You've let me down, you've let yourself down, you've let the whole school down..."

How deflated must he have felt? Possibly a bit like me.

To begin with, arriving back in Sydney was just like crash-landing in any other city we'd visited, only one slightly more familiar than most. We wandered through the CBD, stopping for a coffee and bacon & egg roll ($5.50 meal deal) at a cafe, marvelling at how expensive everything now seemed. $5.50 for a roll and coffee? Lordy! You could get a fish dinner, ten beers and a piggy-back home for that in Laos!

Seeing friends and family was awesome, though it seemed our trip had somehow skewed the space-time continuum. Whilst I was sure that only twelve months had passed, back here on Earth it seemed longer. Babies had sprung up like watercress, the social landscape seemed only vaguely familiar in a very different way.

Still, the first week was a thrill. Sydney turned on seven days of sunshine. We frolicked in the joy of wardrobes, packed larders and going for drinks with old friends. In the distance, my return to work loomed on the horizon.

Not that you'd know it. I hadn't had so much as an email response in over five weeks. Then the news came.

It was all quite friendly. Whilst I was away, my role had been made redundant. No surprise there, the clue was in the lack of communication. I would be required to work an eight-week redeployment period after which, if a suitable role could not be found, I would join the ranks of Australia's great unwashed and get stuck into some hardcore Mornings with Kerry. Redundancy, in other words.

Rachel got stuck into some hardcore catching-up. In between, she also met with some recruitment agents. She's very clear on what role she wants - Product BDM to the stars - but the searching can be tough. Some people just exude bad energy, and a lot of them work in recuitment.

Then the scale of the adjustment began to become apparent.

When you are traveling, people ask you where you are from, where you've come from and where you're going. Here, back in the real world, they want to know what you do. Suddenly, self definition by occupation is back, clawing it's evil arms down our throats, trying to rip out our self-worth by means of comparison. Evil little shit.

There is also still a lot of negative energy floating around amongst the echoes of the GFC (Global Financial Crisis, a devlish little acronym that completely passed us by whilst away). To put it as frankly as I can, there are a lot of not very happy people doing things they don't enjoy in places they don't want to be. Being in the company of large groups of these people feels like swimming through a maelstrom of razor blades: it's not deadly, but stay in long enough and you just might drown.

Or maybe that's the way it always was. Maybe the year away has simply changed our perception of the situation. May it's not them or it, maybe it's us. Herein lies the challenge.

It all came to a head last Saturday where my repressed displeasure expunged itself in a flurry of Martini-fuelled firey ramblings. I hadn't even known I was that upset. Alas, those whom I was with soon did. Whoops and, obviously, sorry.

It's early days. We're sat in limbo (very comfortably sat, mind you). Like anything - starting a business, writing a book, going on a trip - the beginning is always the hardest. "The hardest bit of rolling a boulder is getting it underway", or some such wise ditty. The great unknown lies ahead like a big, scary, blank canvas, and the uncertainty sometimes nips away at you like piranha. Mundanity threatens to seep in and water-damage all the dreams cultivated during those magical months.

Over the past few days though, I can feel a bit of positivity creeping back in. Obviously, my frustrations are a little clearer to me now. I've had some conversations that have inspired me. Friends and loved ones have sent me some parcels of love. All good for the soul.

Today I realised that I'm back full circle. I've walked a Road Less Travelled and, wouldn't you know, it joins back onto Mainstream Freeway! It probably does that a few times along the way, I'll wager. But then off it snakes again, back down into the undergrowth and the valleys and the hills and the unexplored territoires.

A year and a half ago, a friend told me about his 'feather, brick, truck' philosophy. So, I started listening to the universe, keeping my eye out for the little signs along they way. In return, I was guided along a path that saw Rachel and I experience a year that most may never. A year of sights, sounds, encounters, realisations and epiphanies whose profound impact on our lives we have not yet begun to comprehend.

It's then I understand, the journey's actually only just begun. And I realise I'm smiling again.

Day 360 - Blood, sweat and more sweat in Phuket, Thailand

2010-05-03T20:00:00.001+10:00

I've heard pain referred to as a barrier. It's not. It's multiple barriers.

I feel like a wheelchair Olympian doing the 110m hurdles. I race through one barrier, with no choice but to allow it to smack me full-force in the face, only for another to follow shortly afterward, adding to the pain.

Our days begin just after 7am. I drag my sore body from bed - my calf muscles feel like old, gnarled tree roots - and we make our way to Tiger Muay Thai training camp. There Randy from Michigan, who has a chest that would make Arnie green with envy, puts us through an hour of what is best described as 'Aerobics' Evil Twin at the Beach'. He makes us contort out bodies in ways that simply don't seem natural or possible. But contort we do. Amazing.

Then we break. Head for the Tiger Grill, to wolf down egg-white omelets and wholemeal toast. We watch the fighters in the rings either side of the eating area beat the living crap out of each other. We marvel at their fitness, the chiseled nature of their lean bodies and the verve with which they kick, punch and knee each other over and over and over again.

After a kip - sometimes a swim - it's back to the gym for a weights session. The heat of the day has risen palpably. We were sweating in Randy's session. Now the water drips off us like we are showering. Up go the weights, down go the weights, drip-drip-drip go our foreheads.

Then at 4pm, we head to the Muay Thai training area. We start with running, jumping and stretching. I'm buggered already. Then it's technique. Kick, punch, block, knee. Then sparring. I take a few to the head, but I land a couple of nice ones myself. Pad work. High intensity. Bag work. 200 kicks. 200 knees. 200 elbows. 200 punches. Then, to warm down, to finish it all off 100 push-ups and 300 sit-ups. We do them, sitting in our ever-present pool of sweat. Teacher Dan - or Mr Miyagi as he is known with understandable justification - threatens that "I heet you wis my stick!" if we don't finish.

Two and half hours later, it's over. I lay panting on the floor, spent. Rach is the same. Agony over for another day.

We came here to get fit. One week on, I can feel muscles firming. The ache is being replaced by strength missed during our year away. Fitness begins to surge through my veins, making me look forward all the more to the new football season waiting for me back home.

There are people who come here to train for months. They come as novices to learn Muay Thai. At the end of it all, they fight. They go to a stadium here in Phuket, line up in front of a proper paying crowd and they fight a professional bout.

Rachel and I have talked. When we arrived, that seemed like a ridiculous idea. Brutal blood sport! Why do that?

Suddenly, the idea seems far more appealing. Enticing. Possible?

Still, one more week of agony. We'll see what we think then.

Photos from hell are here

Day 349 - Phu Quoc, Vietnam

2010-04-21T02:31:00.001+10:00

"It's about the destination, not the journey", say the lentil-lovers at the Lonely Planet. Of course, that's codswallop. If it were true, mystery flights would be far more popular.

As regular readers will know, neither the Duchess or I are ones for long, arduous trips. Getting from Kampot to Ho Chi Minh (from where our flight to Phuket was scheduled to leave; 14 hours by bus) was proving to be a real coal in the Christmas stocking.

So when Rachel stumbled upon the information that Vietnam Airlines had flights between Phu Quoc Island and Ho Chi Minh City for $60 a head, I damn-near dropped my bacon sandwich.

You see, Phu Quoc is only twenty kms off the coast of Kampot, Cambodia. Whammy! Not surprising really, because it used to be part of Cambodia. Double whammy! Did I mention Phu Quoc was on Rachel's 'Alternate South East Asia list' too? Triple whammy! Good morning Vietnam!

Of course, it was never going to be that easy, was it?

There is some animosity between Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. It's a little hard to fathom at times - I speak none of the languages - but seems to be war and land-related. Phu Quoc is caught up in it all, so going directly there by boat is a no-no.

Instead, you need to go two hours to the Vietnam border, cross, go six kms to the coast and a then take a two hour boat ride. But then you're there.

Phu Quoc is an island about 48kms long and, at it's narrowest point, about 14kms wide. That makes it quite a good size for a drop of land. Big enough to have all the necessary creature comforts, but small enough to travel around quite easily.

After landing ourselves an almost-absolute beachfront bungalow at Hiep Thanh (after the Sea Garden heat episode, air conditioning had become a must-have) we set about the business of exploration. We hired yet another scooter and, being wary of Vietnamese drivers, set off.

We soon discovered that, outside of the main town of Duong Don, Phu Quoc is, as the Alternate list suggests, about as close to unspoilt as you can get without having to revert to primitivism. The asphalt runs out about a kilometre out of town, leaving miles of clay-red dirt roads winding through national park or along pristine white-sand beaches. It's astounding.

We spent two days zipping around the island, stopping at unspoilt beaches to dip our toes and being the occasional taxi for the odd schoolkid who flagged us down in search of a lift home. We visited a pearl farm, playing with the resident monkey, Kapu, who seemed to enjoy nothing more than sticking stuff in his mouth and chewing. Cute.

Racing back in the direction of town one evening, we zipped past a small restaurant-shack advertising 'Cold Beer'. Suddenly, from the depths of the shady interior, came a brilliant smile, as wide as the Harbour Bridge and as white as the Opera House in the sunshine. We did a U-ey and stopped for a chat.

We had a beer on the shoreline. This was something special. Nothing but palm trees and sand for miles in either direction. Wing, our fine lady host, mentioned she sometimes offered a private BBQ on the beach and, if we'd care to partake, she'd be happy to head to the markets next morning.

Sometimes in life, if you really pay attention, important stuff happens in the background. Miss it and you miss out. Feather, brick, truck and all that.

Simply by noticing a smile on the side of the road, we found ourselves twenty-four hours later tucking in to a snapper the size of a cat, watching the sun set slowly down over the horizon. We even caught the green flash the moment before it disappeared.

Sometimes, you visit a place and know you're there at just the right moment in history. I felt that way about Guatemala, about Rio and about Bolivia. In two years time, Phu Quoc International Airport will open, bringing all that goes with that. In that moment though, sat on the beach with sated appetite and bottle of wine slowly chilling, I knew that I felt the same way about Phu Quoc.

All the photos from Phu Quoc are here

Day 344 - The Bokor Hill Station story

2010-04-17T22:05:00.009+10:00

We met Mr Cheang Try outside his shop in the small village of Kampot. He is a wiry man with small, bright eyes and a big smile. He offered us the services of his van for $60 a day. Included in that price, he said, would be the opportunity to hear his story.

The drive to Bokor Hill Station took about an hour and a half. We stopped at the market beforehand, picking up water, fruit and six servings of chicken, pork and rice.

Being Khmer New Year, the company who had recently bought the site from the Cambodian government (to build a 500-room casino) had re-opened the road for the week. So, the place described as 'the eeriest place in the world' was teeming with revellers, making it decidedly un-eery.

We wandered through the empty shell of the casino for an hour, imagining 1930s French aristocracy coming up the mountain to escape the maddening heat of the coast, to fling their imperial spoils across crap tables.

Eventually, after getting our fill, we headed back to the car for lunch. There, Mr Try began his incredible story.

"I was born in 1959 - I'm 51 - and grew up under the Khmer Rouge. Times were hard. Everyone was marched out of the cities, out of our homes, repatriated to the countryside. There, everyone was made to work on the land, as slaves to Khmer Rouge. I was kept together with my parents and sister, but never saw my grandparents again.

Life was hard. We had little to eat. Usually a bowl of watery rice porridge a day. All were expected to do a full days work. Men, women, children, young and old. We were so hungry, but still we had to work.

Sometimes, I would sneak into the forest at night, looking for food. One time, I found a sweet potato. I cooked it there and then in the forest, and brought it back so my family could share it.

I don't know how they knew, but the Khmer Rouge came into our hut almost immediately. The said we had stole from the government. They tied us together in a line, our hands bound behind our backs. Then they blindfolded us and we began marching.

After some time, we stopped. They removed our blindfolds. They cut my mother and father free from my sister and I, took a club, and bludgeoned them to death with a single blow to the back of their heads. This they did in front of my eyes.

Next they cut my sister free from me. I realised that I was no longer tied to anyone else. So, when they guards were not looking, I turned and ran. I ran into the forest, away from the place where they killed my family.

I ran for a long time, deep into the forest. For many days, I could hear the Khmer Rouge searching for me. Eventually, the voices went away and I was alone. I was nineteen.

I stayed in the forest for two years. I learned what plants to eat and what plants not to eat. I found a nettle that, when rubbed on the skin, would emit a smell that made the cobra avoid me. I learned how to hunt and which animals to avoid.

To escape from a tiger, I learned that it is important not to look into his eyes. He doesn't like that. To escape from a bear, I learned to run in zig-zags. The bear is fast, but he cannot change direction quickly. I learned that to catch a cobra, one need only come at him from the front. Cobras cannot see forward too well.

During this time, I kept moving. I never slept in one place more than once. I was seeking the Thai border, whilst trying to avoid the Khmer Rouge.

After many months, I realised I had no idea where the Thai border was. I began following the sound of gunfire. I thought that perhaps if I could find where people were fighting, I might also find the frontier.

One day, following gunshots, I spied a young boy with a hunting rifle. I followed him at a distance. He lead me back to a house, where he began talking to his family. They didn't speak Khmer, they spoke Vietnamese. I approached them.

They were shocked to see me. I was twenty-two, but I looked like a wild animal. They took me in, bathed me, fed me and gave me a bed. The next day, they took me to the Vietnamese army command. I had stumbled into Vietnam.

I had a lot of anger inside me. So, I joined the Vietnamese army. I headed back into the jungles, with a troop. We hunted the Khmer. We laid mines up around Bokor Hill Station, because we knew how badly the Khmer wanted to hold the station. Eventually, I came to command over 200 men, all wanting the same thing. To destroy the Khmer, to liberate Cambodia.

It was tough. The Khmer were fierce soldiers. Nixon was dropping bombs everywhere. It was a hard time. I lost many soldiers, many friends.

One time, I was chasing two Khmer soldiers through the jungle. As I was running, I stepped on something and heard a 'click'. I knew it was a mine, but I couldn't stop. The explosion sent shrapnel up into my knee. I was lucky though. Russian doctors look care of me and removed all the metal pieces."

At this point, I got up and offered my chair to Mr Try. He gave me a kindly look and told me that he walks fine now and is very fit. I became aware of the ridiculousness of my gesture. Offering my chair to a man who had been through more hardship and pain in his life than most could even possibly compute. I sat down again and he continued.

"I remember the battle of Bokor Hill well. We captured the station. The Khmer Rouge had the Catholic Church. Our machine gun, mounted on the top of the casino, could not quite reach their position. However, they, with their anti-aircraft gun, could certainly fire at us! However, because of the land mines, they couldn't reach us.

Eventually, the Khmer were beaten. Then the UN came in. They started to try and remove the mines. I had kept a record of every mine I had laid, written down the exact location, so I began to help them. They taught me English.

Eventually, my wife spoke to me about how long I had been away. She had sent me telegrams telling me of the birth of my children! They had been growing up without me. They needed a father. So, I went home.

I started working as a guide for Intrepid. I got quite a reputation, but I had to travel a lot. Too much. So I stopped that. Now, I live in Kampot, with my wife, my family and my little business.

It's easy to be angry. But that anger will get me nowhere. I prefer to look forward to the future, and put the past behind me. I have four children - perhaps because of all the cobra blood-wine I drank in the army! - and in them I see a strong future for Cambodia.

Each day, I walk one hour in the morning and one hour at night. I eat well. I am 51, but I would like to live for some time. I want to be around, so I can see the bright future I believe Cambodia has before it"

The photos from Kampot and Bokor Hill Station.

Day 342 - Life's a beach in Sihanoukville?

2010-04-15T13:27:00.064+10:00

Tolerance is a double-edged sword. SE Asia has a strong Buddhist tradition, so it seems to be the norm to turn the other cheek. Sometimes though, you question where the line should be drawn.

It had been six weeks since either of us had seen the coast. We agreed a beach should be next on the agenda. Southern Cambodia has built up a quietly impressive reputation, so we boarded an overnighter.

The journey was far from smooth, but we arrived in one piece. Rachel had done her research and concluded that Sihanoukville could be roughly divided into three areas. Victory Hill (sleazy sex tourism), Serendipity Beach (backpacker party central on a seriously dirty patch of sand) or Otres (electricity-deficient but unspoilt, about 5km out of town). She chose the latter. It was a good decision.

We jumped in a tuk-tuk and, without reservations, made an inspection of four properties. We settled on the Sea Garden. Sure, our banana-leaf hut might only have electricity for six hours a day and was as basic as basic gets, but it was literally a meter from the shoreline and the vibe felt good.

We settled in. The Sea Garden was not busy. Just us and another couple. The Cambodian staff looked underworked, and there were more than a few of them. Then we met Mike.

The Sea Garden is Mike's baby. A businessman from Colorado, he made the decision to move to Cambodia after visiting on a sex holiday.

Excuse me? In the sweet words of the Virgin Mary, "Come again?"

Yep. If there was one thing Mike was not, it was shy in coming forward. He was unashamedly unabashed about the nature of his involvement in the local economy. As well as the Sea Garden, he was also part-owner in the newest 'hostess' club in town; Victory Club. He invited us to visit to see what it was like. Mike guaranteed a 'classy atmosphere' and the 'best-looking ladies in town'. In the interests of maintaining an open mind before passing judgment, Rachel and I agreed to check it out.

We were chaperoned by Jeat, who was to be our own personal tuk-tuk driver for the week. Not only did Jeat have a willingness to join in an evening's festivities, he also had to the handy knack of turning up in the right place at exactly the right time.

Driving through Victory Hill, we soon became aware of it's denizens. More often than not, they were either young Cambodian females or older western men. Possibly not a place to take the family, unless you want the kids asking "Mum, why do all the ladies keep blowing kisses at Daddy?"

Victory Club itself was certainly a cut above the rest. It had a red carpet, and tinted windows. Inside we were met by more lasers than a late 80s rave and R'n'B blasting from the speakers. Ironic really, given the apparent purpose of the club was to enable "western men to sit down with Cambodian women and talk", before they both subsequently left to go wherever and do whatever.

In truth the place was far more tame than most western strip clubs. The atmosphere inside was more one of boredom, rather than sleaze. The girls looked uninterested and, with the exception of one lady who took an obsessive fancy to Rachel, spent most of the time texting on their phones or bopping away unconvincingly on the dancefloor.

Surprisingly, there were other couples in the place. We all watched old and (surprisingly) young men skulk their way in the door, bringing the sleaze factor with them into the otherwise-friendly venue. They flashed decay-ridden smiles and groped their way around the place, heading out minutes later, their 'selection' in tow.

Rex and Noy (and his impressive geezer accent!) were gracious hosts both times we visited. Invariably though, we left after about an hour and headed for Serendipity Beach.

That stretch of sand was somewhat different. This was about backpackers. The beach itself had seen better days. Bar after bar lined the sand and spilled up into the strip. They all sold the same thing; cheap booze and western grub. Meat pies, burgers and small sand buckets filled to the brim with gut-rot whisky and red bull. Headache material. A guy at the bar next to me sat rolling large joints and dishing them out to bar staff. Spring break stuff. A harmless waste of time, quietly laying waste to what might have once been a nice looking stretch of sand. Nice to visit, wouldn't want to live there.

So back every night we headed to the Sea Garden. Chatting to the staff and to Mike. Enjoying our pristine beach, a bumpy dirt road ride away from central Sihanoukville. Lots of dinghy sailing and sunsets to amuse ourselves with. The Sea Garden suddenly began to fill up as Khmer New Year approached. Then the heat came.

Every morning without fail, the sea breeze would drop to zero and the sun would begin to bake us in our huts at 6am. Without electricity to power the fan, sleep became impossible. The mass exodus began. That Friday, half the hotel left with us to board a bus to Kampot. And the discussion began.

We all began to chat - the ladies especially - about what was going on in Sihanoukville. It's funny, but when people present so comfortably what should ordinarily be uncomfortable, it's strange how it can grant it normality.

As long as there is a market for the sleaze, I guess it will be provided. After all, it's the oldest trick in the book. However, the comfort some display in shopping for people like groceries is odd.

Perhaps, it all came to a head when two Norweigian lads checked into the Sea Garden with a Cambodian lady. Hours later a second Cambodian lady arrived. Mike laid eyes on them and informed anyone within earshot that he "wanted her to come work for him". When did it become alright to publicly announce your desire to pimp someone's date, regardless of whether they are 'in-the-business' or not?

I liked Sihanoukville. I enjoyed the unspoilt nature of Otres. Heck, I even enjoyed the lawlessness of the bars in Serendipity. However, one thing is clear to me now. There are a people in that town that have lost touch with reality. People who believe that the kind of money that buys you little in the west but a lot in Cambodia, also gives you the right to act in ways you never would on home shores.

And that there, folks, might just be the big trouble in little Sihanoukville.

All the photos from Sihanoukville can be accessed here. Free of charge too!

Day 333 - Visit a wat?

2010-04-06T20:27:00.245+10:00

Rachel has a list. She keeps it in a small book she carries around with her. It's based on an article she read in a UK magazine called Wanderlust, entitled 'South East Asia Alternatives'.

The basis for the article was the suggestion that tourism has spoiled many of the traditional sights of South East Asia. It gives a number of alternatives; similar types of places which have yet to fall prey to the tourist trail and it's monstrous entourage.

For example; rather than brave the touts in Hoi Ann (Vietnam), Wanderlust suggests Kampot (Cambodia) instead. As an alternate to the French colonial splendour of Hanoi, it recommends checking out the Laos capital, Vientiane. That sort of thing.

We'd heeded the list once already, heading to Vientiane instead of Vietnam. It turned out to be good advice, so we vowed to heed again. After dropping the bike in Pakse, we headed for an area dubbed 'the most laid-back place in Asia'.

Si Phan Don - Four-Thousand Islands in English - is pretty much the last stop in southern Laos before you cross the border into Cambodia. As the name suggests, the area consists of numerous islands in the middle of the Mekong, where the river reaches up to 14km in breadth. The exact number changes depending on the season, but you get the general idea.

Si Phan Don's reputation has been well earned. As long as there is nothing more you want from life than a hammock, food, plentiful beers and an occasion wander along the shoreline, then you are in heaven.

Thing is, after four days of lazing around - and I mean doing the merest above nowt - I was bored. More toey than a nymphomaniac in a nunnery. Like the rest of Laos, Si Phan Don just wasn't living up to the hype. I wasn't feeling the love. I didn't come halfway around the world to sit by the water and do naff all. Strewth, I could go on the dole and do that in Maroubra. It was time to go.

We glanced at the list again. It mentioned Angkor Wat (one of the Seven Forgotten Wonders of the Medieval Mind, no less). It suggested Preah Vihear as an alternative. We took a moment.

Were we really going to pass up on a Wonder of the World? Hadn't we said the same thing about Iguazu? The Taj Mahal? Hadn't we ended up going anyway?

That's the thing about these places. No matter how many horror stories you hear, never mind how daunting the prospect of subjecting yourself to death by a thousand "hey lady, you want a tuk-tuk?"'s, you still end up going.

So we went. And from the off, Siem Reap, and Cambodia, really surprised me.

Maybe what I'm really writing about here is expectations. My expectations of Laos were high, fuelled by the mung-bean loving praise of the Lonely Planet. It failed to measure up. Meanwhile, Siem Reap was labelled the 'tourist mecca of the region', carrying with it all the negative connotations of that phrase.

Siem Reap is a cracking city. It was apparently quite Monaco-esque back in the 70s, drawing the jet set crowd in from around the globe. Then, the war brought an end to it all. Until, that is, now.

Modern-day Siem Reap is a buzzy, fizzy little city, contained and concentrated, but riddled with all sorts of funky little bars, restaurants, boutique clothes shops, the odd Hollywood film star and enough to keep you occupied 'til well after bedtime.

We meant to stay three nights, but ended up bedding down for five, drawn to the pool at the wonderful Antaneue Hotel. I watched as my previously-mentioned blue veil of sadness melted on the red-hot tiles underneath my padded sun lounger. Another cocktail anyone?

Oh. Yeh. I almost forgot about the Temples of Angkor. How remiss of me.

They are impressive indeed. Angkor Wat is obviously the most famous, and the scale of it is certainly grand. However, it is only a small part of a larger complex, home to over a million souls at a time when the mighty City of London housed a population of just 50,000. I personally took far more pleasure exploring Bayon (the temple of a thousand faces, all of it's builder; surely a candidate for the Russell Brand Award for the Most Egotistical Man in the History of the World) and Ta Prohm (colloquially known as 'The Tomb Raider Temple").

The problem of course is that I'm seeing the temples of Angkor through eyes that have seen a fair share of historical sights over the past few months. I feel a bit like Tiger Woods in a strip club. Because I've seen so many beautiful things, I may not appreciate them as much as I should.

Like most of the reknowned places we've seen on this trip - Iguazu, the Grand Canyon, Tikal etc - they don't always live up to the considerable hype that accompanies them. However, there is something about them that makes you glad to have been there. Angkor is no different. And when you throw Siem Reap into the mix, you have a place that we are both very glad we chose not to miss.

All the photos from Si Phan Don and Siem Reap

Postscript: As an aside, I found out really interesting fact about how Angkor Wat was built. As they laid down brickwork, the construction teams (ie. slaves) would mound dirt atop them, to enable them to then build the upper levels.

This meant that, at the end of the whole process, they would end up excavating the temple from the ground in order to reveal it.

How cool would that look caught on time lapse camera!?

Day 325 - Following the Mekong

2010-04-04T15:08:00.007+10:00

This post should be a Richard Curtis movie; Two Confessions and a Revision. Quick! Call Hugh Grant and find out what he is doing, besides feeling sorry for himself.

A wise corporate warrior once told me; "Best to beg for forgiveness, than ask for permission". It's worked for me so far. So, here goes.

We rented a motorcycle and rode from Vientiane in northern Laos, all the way down to Pakse in the south. Sorry Mum(s). Sorry Dad(s).

That, in case you missed it, was the first confession.

It was quite fun. Not awesome though, due in no small part to two numb arses and the uniform and mostly non-descript landscape along the way. But it was good, clean, Bell family fun though. Me, the missus and our unborn, potential children.

There were highlights. However, before I tell you about them, there is the matter of my second confession.

I'm as homesick as an Australian doing winter in London. I find that I am experiencing everything through a blue-tinged veil of sadness. It's hard to write about the majesty of the lazy Mekong, without wishing I was looking out at the Harbour. It's a challenge to wax lyrical about a bowl of Lao noodles, when all I want is a pizza from Arthur's on Oxford Street. No matter who else I meet, I miss the rag-tag (but highly engaging) bunch of misfits the wife and I are fortunate enough to call friends.

So, whilst Laos is a great country, it's not having quite the impact it should right now. The towns all look the same. I feel like we are slinking from place to place, marking time before something else.

Then again; how about an underground river that travels 7km through a mountain? Would that likely stir me from my fug?

'Ken oath.

Through eyes that yearn for the familiar sights of home, I put the Laos cities of Paksan, Tha Khaek, Savannaket, Pakse (and all the villages in between) into a big box marked 'Meh'. Kong Lor Cave though is a dead-set marvel of natural engineering.

Close your eyes for a second (actually, that's not going to work, is it?). Imagine traveling - on the previously mentioned trailbike - down a 42km road of varying quality. You reach a woodland glade of watery loveliness and scramble over some rocks, to where a boatman is waiting to take you deep inside a gigantic gash in the rock. You don your headlamp, and away you go.

In describing it, my mind is wont to lapse into mythology. Charon, the boatman, taking us into the Underworld. Or perhaps Lord of the Rings, a journey into the kingdom of that ghostly army. Beowulf journeying into the lair of Grendel's mother. It's astounding, mythical, the scale and size of this place.

At times, the passageway can be 100m wide and almost as tall. A dark and cavernous natural cathedral of inky blackness. The river itself is a veritable highway of activity. No sooner has daylight faded and the darkness enveloped you, light appears in the distance and a boat, laden with tobacco from the plantations on the other side of the mountain, passes. Far from just a tourist attraction, this monstrosity is also the quickest way to get around the mountain. By road, the same trip takes around an hour and a half. Via cave, it's about forty minutes or so, allowing for the times when you need to alight the boat to wade with it through shallower waters.

Many places we've visited during the past eleven months have been memorable. But once we'd left, they fell from our minds. Occasionally we'd reminisce, talking about how we'd enjoyed being there. Kong Lor though, I can't get it out of my head. I never knew such a place could exist outside of the world of Tolkien.

Other than the cave, there really isn't too much to report. Kilometres and kilomteres of banana leaf shacks, a very close shave with a snake, many kamikaze cows, the odd road side drink stall and a general sense that Laos is probably the least developed country we've visited.

Which brings me nicely to the retraction. In writing the blog, I've often put forward the view that (western) life has become too complicated. I've suggested that in our give-it-to-me-now world of consumerism, we've lost something that made us more human than we are today.

I'm ready to revise that view. I've seen the other side. I still believe that owning fleets of great beast-cars, multiple televisions and mansion-homes with six bedrooms and equal number of bathrooms may be a little unnecessary. Western society is a drain on the world. If you ignore political and geographical boundaries, what's clear is that other people are going without simply to keep us in the decadent manner to which we've become accustomed.

Now though, I see that there needs to be a median. A point at which technology, progress and all the negative forces that drive modern life become lesser evils. Visiting villages without clean running water or electricity is a big eye-opener. Being served bowls of noodles by ten-year olds made me wish their families could send them to school instead. Visiting a hospital to get some basic antiseptic cream for Rachel's (harmless) spider bite, we were confronted with a bucket full of bloody bandages spilling out onto the floor, and a treatment room looking more oo-er than ER.

It's made me appreciate that progress is important. That the answer to the world's ills isn't as easy as looking to the past. That somewhere between primitivism and the extreme corporate greed that characterises the worst of the western world, there is a right, human balance.

It's important that the Laotian people feel the benefit of some of the massive investment that is now pouring into the country from China and Australia. The country is resource rich and, because of it, will see great development over the next few years. We have visited a country right on the cusp of huge change. We both feel very privileged to be here now, to see the final traces of what Laos and the rest of this region was like long before industrialisation, corporatisation and globalisation. Just before it all gets washed away by an inevitable tsunami of progress.

I still can't shake my craving for a Mrs Macs Pepper Steak Pie though.

For a sample of some of the photos taken on our road trip click here

Day 315 - A glimpse of the glistening underbelly of Vientiane

2010-03-19T22:46:00.055+11:00

Sometimes you see a lot more than you expect.

There have been places around the world that have revealed themselves a little more than most. Like an Elizabethan peep show, a city lifts her skirt just an inch or two and you are treated to a glimpse of something private underneath. A world not inhabited by outsiders.

It's happened before. In Mexico City. Guatemala. Paraty. Rio was a bit different. She didn't so much show us her ankles, as transplant them onto us for a night so we could see what it felt like to go dancing with Brazilian feet.

Last night, here in Vientiane, it happened again.

Rachel and I were sat in a bar having a drink. The bar - Jazzy Brick - was an impressively decked-out affair. It wouldn't look of place in the debonair company of the Supper Club in Melbourne. Not surprising. The owner is a Laotian, back from doing time in Australia's other great city.

The night was young. Dusk was falling fast. We first sampled the wine list, then a cheeky Gin Martini. Dirty. It was good. Very good. We chatted away for a bit with, before heading to Leo's Cafe for some proper, home cooked Italian.

On the way out, we noticed three things:
1. The bar had gained a number of well-dressed, middle aged men.
2. They were outnumbered by numerous extremely well-dressed younger Laotian women.
3. Numerous expensive looking cars (Mustangs, Lexus, Hummers etc) had begun to congregate outside.

The meal was good, but the bar situation hung in the mind. We finished up and headed back for another cocktail.

On the way back we became aware that the road, normally so respectable and sedate, was lined with numerous members of the third sex. Swarms - is that the collective term? - of ladyboys. Like we were in Bangkok or something.

Arriving back at the Jazzy Brick, it was now rammed. We walked in and made our way to the top floor, with the intent of sitting out on the balcony. Up the stairs we went.

Ever want to know what it is like to be a movie star walking into a room? Go to the Jazzy Brick at 10pm on a Friday. The room went silent. Eyes swivelled in heads, training in on our every move. What was it about us that looked so out of place? Who were these people?

We took Gin Martinis on the terrace for a bit, watching the world pass by outside. More prestige cars turned up and left. All manner of intriguing and interesting encounters went on around us. People seemed to leave together, breaking off briefly, only to head off in thinly-disguised convoy. More beautiful people arrived to take the place of those who had left.

Once the mozzies began to bite, we made our way downstairs to sit at the bar. The precession continued. Then, in bowled two gents. One was Swiss. The other, well, he was just plain weird.

He had a strange accent - not alone a fair reason to label him with weirdness - but he refused, in an almost melodramatically enigmatic manner, to be drawn on where he was from.

He was a tall man with a deep voice. North American looking. He dropped into conversations with odd comments. He lived in Thailand. Had crossed the border for some unmentionable reason. He wanted to know if the barman's dodgy acquaintance was here or not. He flashed his cash around like a millionaire one minute, and then demanded a round when we went to leave. He warmly held a conversation one minute, only to suddenly drop out, as if we had never met.

Most people in life you can see good in. In even the most flawed, you will find something to be sympathetic to. This insufferable bore was different. For the first time in my life, I had met someone utterly unlikeable.

We fulfilled our obligations. Drank a few more drinks and made conversation with the charming bar owner. Then we left. Ejected ourselves from the strange bar, with it's mysterious denizens, carrying on their intriguingly mysterious business. We walked home past the prestige cars and the ladyboys, trying to attribute meaning to it all.

We went back next day. Mr Charisma-vacuum was there again, but the other denizens of this world were not. The cars were gone. The middle aged men didn't show. The beautiful people were elsewhere. We drank our drinks, enjoyed the martinis again, then went home.

The skirt was down.

Photos from Vientiane can be seen here

Day 313 - Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng (Laos)

2010-03-17T19:53:00.120+11:00

The well-worn path from Chiang Mai to the northern Laos city of Luang Prabang is a fearsome one. It is not for the faint-hearted. In the same way that Russell Brand probably wouldn't make a good Dalai Lama.

First, you pile on a bus to the Thai-Laos border. It takes about six hours. Alas, the timing is such that you arrive after the border has shut, meaning a requisite overnight stay. End of Day One.

Day Two involves festering in line(s) to get the necessary stamps and authorisations, before boarding a cramped riverboat for a nine-hour ride down the Mekong. Sometime just after sunset, you arrive at Pak Beng. This fetid slurry-pit of a town is your home for the night. If you're lucky, you might manage to avoid sharing a room with rats the size of beagles. It's the end of Day Two.

Day Three dawns early. It's back onto the boats again. Another long, miserable, noisy nine hours before you finally disembark at the World Heritage-listed city of Luang Prabang. It may take a few days for the ringing in your ears to stop, but you are there! And all for the bargain price of $20 per person!

Of course, there is another option. If you are willing to forgo the sanctity of "the experience", you can grab a direct flight with Lao Airlines. It takes an hour, and costs $160.

Which is exactly what we did. Subject ourselves to three days of that farcical voyage to Hell? Not bloody likely. The smelly backpacker crowd can have it. Daft bastards.

Laos, for the uninitiated, is a country of four million friendly souls. She's landlocked on high land between Vietnam and Thailand, just above Cambodia. It's a communist country, although you wouldn't really know it. It also has a reputation for being very laid back.

There's a saying in this part of the world. The Thais plant the rice. The Vietnamese sell the rice. The Lao people watch it grow.

Luang Prabang is a good case in point. It's a sleepy town, situated on a peninsula between the Mekong and Nam Kong rivers. It's a bit of a living museum, dominated by numerous conspicuous wats (temples) and the highest-concentration of monks of any city on the planets. More bald ginger blokes than Edinburgh city centre during Hogmanay.

It is entertaining enough. However, once you've had your fill of Beer Lao sat on the banks of the river, and wandered through the markets wondering where on earth so many antiques could possibly have come from, noting all the charmless boutique hotels springing up in the city centre, it all starts to get a bit boring.

So, joined by Briar, fresh off the plane from Sydney, we headed to the hills. Three days of mountain biking, trekking, elephant riding and kayaking. Sore bums. Aching shoulders. Action Jacksons! Much more the pace I've come to know and love.

Just the tonic before our visit to the most notorious of all Laos destinations; the backpacker central and mothersbane that is Vang Vieng.

She's a bit of a controversial venue is the ol' double V. The culture-vulture crowd despise it. "Wanton rape of Laos' cultural heritage", or some such tosh. Like the twentieth century never happened.

Conversely, to your average twenty-something gap-year student it's earnt the reputation of a veritable modern-day Valhalla. Cheap booze, all manner of legally-ambiguous substances to be scoffed and a catalogue of ways to shorten an already short life.

The truth is somewhere in between. Vang Vieng won't make you a better person, but it isn't Satan's pool hall either.

Tubing down the river, stopping in at the various bars that line each side is actually quite a bit of fun (Wet 'n' Wild for adults!). The swings and slides are, in all truth, death traps. But, if you pick carefully, they can also be fun. The bars and clubs on Dhon Khang island are another world. Fun - Never Never Land meets Alex Garland's The Beach - and you'll be doing someone's Mum a favour in making sure someone vaguely sober-ish is there to ensure their totally non-sober son/ daughter doesn't fall to a certain death.

The thing is; for all the criticism, Vang Vieng and Luang Prabang are two sides of the same coin:

Vang Vieng - De-sanitised Laotian chaos accompanied by cheap beer, westernised food and plentiful cut-price drugs, to give twenty-somethings doing it on-the-cheap their gap-year fix.

Luang Prabang - Sanitised Laotian quaintness accompanied by cheap wine, westernised food, and plentiful cut-price antiques, to give middle-incomers doing it on-the-cheap their holiday fix.

And that's about the fairest comparison I can offer.

Click on the links for photos from Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng

Day 294 - A crack team of expert troops deliver a quite unexpected birthday surprise in the northern Thai city of Chiang Mai

2010-03-08T17:43:00.004+11:00

The scene: Somewhere deep in the thick, lush urban jungle of Chiang Mai, it is night. The air is heavy with the smell of Thai spices. Laughter tinkles forth from a bar on the banks of the River Ping.

Beyond the edge of the light that radiates from the bar is one man, hidden from view. His name is Arnold. He is wearing army camouflage, a flack helmet and heavy boots. His face is plastered with camo paint. In his right hand, he holds a walky-talky. Occasionally, he gestures towards the trees, grass and river all around.

Suddenly, he is joined by a second man; Gerry, also dressed in army fatigues. The second man's arrival startles the first briefly, before he quickly regains his military composure.

Gerry: Wotcha Arnold. All is well, I do 'ope.
Arnold: (in a slight but not easily-identifiable European accent) Gerry, what are you doing here?
Gerry: How do you mean?
Arnold: Gerry, I did not call for you tonight. I thought you were with your dog? Is she not sick? You said she has cancer?
Gerry: Yeh, she was but it's all okay.
Arnold: Really?
Gerry: Yeh, it's not a tumour.
Arnold: Well, that is good, Gerry. But it still doesn't explain to me why you are here.
Gerry: Well, this is a job, innit?
Arnold: Yes.
Gerry: And, I'm a...you know...soldier of fortune, right?
Arnold: Yes
Gerry: Well, that's why I'm here. Anyhoo, what's the job?
Arnold: (sighing slightly in a way akin to really bad acting) It's a birthday job.
Gerry: Surprise or cutting-the-throat type?
Arnold: The first one.
Gerry: Oh, I do prefer the first one. I hate the look on their faces when they realise "oh great! It's my birfday" then "oh shit! Someone's gone and done me". Kinda makes it hard to blow your candles out, if you get what I mean. He he.
Arnold: (slightly annoyed) Gerry, can I be honest with you?
Gerry: Always Arnold, me old mucka. I'm taken aback you should need to ask.
Arnold: You lack focus.
Gerry: (oblivious) Ooo. Look. Is that Daryl Hannah having a drink in that here bar?
Arnold: No Gerry. That's our target. Rachel Bell.
Gerry: Ah well. Regardless, tasty sort right there, if I do say so myself.

Arnold's walky-talky crackles into life briefly, with a message that is incomprehensible to all but the most-highly trained military ear.

Arnold: Go ahead.
Walky talky: Crzzzz hzzzz crckzzzz htzzzz.
Arnold: Thank you, Dolph. (Turning to Gerry) Gerry, wait here a moment. I'll be back.

Arnold is gone for some minutes, during which time Gerry takes the opportunity to scope the target. She is sitting in a bar with a male, drinking a cocktail. They are talking and seem relaxed. Arnold returns.

Arnold: Dolph says to say "hello".
Gerry: Wicked. How is he?
Arnold: Tall. Blonde. Like always.
Gerry: Of course. So, you were telling me the drill for tonight.
Arnold: (thinking for a second before answering) What the hell. You're here now. In about five minutes, that girl's farzzer will...
Gerry: Her what?
Arnold: Her farzzer.
Gerry: Eh?

Arnold: Her farzzer! You know, Gerry. Her Papa?
Gerry: Oh! Her fa-ther.
Arnold: (slightly annoyed) Yes. Exactly. Her...fa-ther...will arrive in about ten minutes. She has no idea he is even in Thailand. She thinks he is in Australia.
Gerry: Aw. That's nice, innit.
Arnold: Yes, it is. He is also carrying many little presents for her.
Gerry: You don't say?
Arnold: Yes. You see, she is Australian...
Gerry: Austrian?
Arnold: No, you ee-diot, Australian
Gerry: Right-ho.
Arnold: ...and he has brought her Vegemite, all the make-up she has been unable to purchase and a pack of Tim Tams.
Gerry: Ooo, I like a Tim Tam.
Arnold: I am also quite partial.
Gerry: Well, that's a lovely surprise, that is.
Arnold: Oh, it doesn't end there. Also, as a surprise, they have been staying at the Rarinjinda Hotel.
Gerry: Sounds a bit swanky...

Arnold: And also tomorrow they're all going to do a special Thai cooking class together at Siam Rice.
Gerry: Is that the one where you get to visit the market?
Arnold: The very same, Gerry. You have been paying attention. That is good.
Gerry: (blushing) Shucks. Thanks Arnold. I try to keep up-to-date on the movers and shakers on tripadvisor.
Arnold: (Looking into his binoculars). Then they will all go for a meal at a restaurant called House; a very impressive establishment.
Gerry: Geez. I had no idea Chiang Mai had so much to offer!
Arnold: Sure, Gerry. It's a very impressive city. It has much to offer for the adventurous traveller.
Gerry: Clearly!
Arnold: (Quickly putting down the binoculars) Look, here he comes. (Talking into the walky-talky) Everyone in position? Commence operation birthday surprise.

Both men sit in silence for a while, watching intently the scene unfolding in front of them. The older man comes up behind the girl and taps her on the shoulder, mouthing the words, "do you mind if I sit here?". The girl jumps up in surprise, hugs the older man and tears begin to flow. There are big smiles on everyone's face as they sit down to share a meal.

Gerry: (Also looking into his own binoculars) Oh, check out the look on her face! She didn't see that coming did she?
Arnold: No, Gerry, but then they never do. I'd say it went like clockwork.
Gerry: Yeh, it sure did. One thing though? Something I've never been able to work out.
Arnold: Yes Gerry?
Gerry: Well, what exactly is our role in all this?
Arnold: How do you mean?
Gerry: Well, we just sat in the grass here whilst a bunch of people met in a bar.
Arnold: That is correct.

Gerry: Well, what exactly did we do to aid this whole charade?
Arnold: (thinking) I'll level with you, Gerry.
Gerry: Please do Arnie.
Arnold: We mainly do it for Sylvester these days.
Gerry: How's the big guy doing?
Arnold: Not so well, Gerry, if truth be told.
Gerry: Bummer.
Arnold; Sure is, Gerry. Sure is.
Gerry: Fancy a drink?
Arnold: Sounds good, Gerry.
Gerry: I have to introduce you to this guy. He wants to shoot a movie in Mexico City!
Arnold: Mexico City? Seriously, who sets a movie in Mexico City?
Gerry: That's what I said, but turns out.....

Fade to black.

All the pics from the birthday week (!) in Chiang Mai are here

Day 290 - Chiang Mai detox

2010-02-22T20:14:00.009+11:00

The waiter, an unusually sullen Thai gentleman whom no-one has been able to warm to, deposits food on the table. A large wooden bowl contains a sizable salad. A tall glass holds a frothy shake made from various tropical vegetables. A selection of hummus-filled seaweed rolls, uncanny in their resemblance to Japanese sushi, sits between us on the table.

Now, normally I would likely turn my nose up at the in front of me. I prefer my food somewhat heartier. I'm no junk food junkie, but neither am I a mung-bean saint either. However, this is my first meal in seven days. Right now, it looks like a veritable medieval feast, laid out on a long wooden table, crowned by a single roasted pig with an apple in its' mouth.

As I tuck in, my mind drifts back to the first day I arrived. I was a podgier-faced cheeky-chappy back then. Full of the cuisine of a dozen nations, not to mention the alcoholic spoils of humanity's common interest in getting sozzled. Who knows what manner of parasites had seen fit to cadge a lift from the bacterial smelter of India?

Now, I am reinvented. 5 kgs have fallen from my frame like needles from a neglected Christmas tree. My eyes and skin positively glow. The hint of definition smiles out at me from my mid-section. I feel a million dollars.

Rachel also feels and looks similarly good. Her hair looks like a Pantene advert. She skips along the road like a twelve year old. Her farts smell of rose petals and expensive perfume.

As the little-known contemporary philosopher and amateur blue comedian Stephen Bowe - the man responsible for us being here - once coined, we feel "a euphoric sense of lightness".

Troy from Sydney - who, along with Rob from New York, has been our partner on this journey to skinny-dom - swears by a week at the Spa Resort every 3-6 months. I can see why.

Not that it's easy, this not eating lark. However, I will say that I was expecting to feel hungry at some point. But hungry I was not. Probably due to consuming a glass of fruit juice mixed with toxin-binding clay and psyillium every three hours, plus a handful of pills in between.

Did I mention the coffee? Probably best not, save to say that I never in my life envisaged the idea of it, let alone twice a day. I feel I have said to much already. I'll finish by saying, it brings a whole new meaning to the phrase, "wake up and smell the coffee".

And how the days fill up! We expected time to spare. Perhaps sitting around the pool, or churning into a good novel?

However, the hours seemed to wile by, filled with meditation, yoga, thai massage and steam room time.

When we did manage a block of 3-4 hours free, myself, Troy, Rob and Rachel formed a motorcycle gang - well, mopeds actually - taking off into the hills outside Chiang Mai to visit the Queens Botanical Gardens, an underground temple, the famous Chiang Mai markets and to cuddle tigers.

Yep, you heard that right. Cuddle tigers. Big, sleepy (not drugged!), cute, hairy and potentially deadly tigers. In actual fact, its not the tigers you need to worry about, it's the lions. Grumpy buggers.

But now it's all over. The salad feels crunchy and crispy in my mouth. I have no idea how my stomach will deal with it, but I'll worry about that later.

This detox lark, I give it the thumbs up. The fact that we got to do it in the wonderful surrounds of Mae Rim, Chiang Mai was a bonus. We take with us new learnings about raw food, healthy living, looking after the mind and body and ridding yourself of the toxins we pick up in every day life. I'd recommend it to anyone.

Now, where can we get a good martini around here?

Photos from the week of no food are here.

You may have noticed some adverts appearing on the blog of late. Turns out companies such as Amazon will actually pay bloggers to put adverts and other such links on their sites. So, we've added a few links to books, music and other such items of interest.

If you feel like clicking through to any of them, that'd obviously be wonderful. Cheers!

India: final call

2010-02-16T03:27:00.015+11:00

Darren believes in egalitarianism. He has shorn hair, with three ratty dreadlocks spilling out the back. He is wearing brightly-coloured happy pants, of the kind that not even fisherman would be seen dead in. Occasionally, he takes a break from his fire twirling/ glass ball juggling antics to tell the girl on the beach with him that, despite her clearly impressive yoga pose, she "in't doin' it 'ard enuff" because she is facing up the beach.

Darren is looking to "find himself". Rachel has privately suggested he start down the back of the sofa.

Rajeev is a con-artist. He is not alone. India is full of them. He seeks to spread disinformation (otherwise known as lies) - such as "the tourist office is closed", or "yes, this product does that" - in order to separate people from their money. When he cannot do this easily, he follows them up the street, "leading" them to places they were already going, to claim 'finders commission' those very same people will have to pay. Polite requests for him to leave will be ignored, for Rajeev is only interested in what he wants.

Rajeev does not take no for an answer. Rajeev is all about Rajeev.

India is a country in Asia. It is big and will soon be the biggest in the world. It is in the middle of an "Economic Miracle". This seems to mean that rich people are getting richer, whilst not so rich people become middle class. It does not seem to have any effect on the not-rich-at-all. They still eat garbage, shit on the street and die of curable diseases.

On the subject of curable diseases, India is not very clean. I'm not entirely sure why. It lacks a lot of infrastructure, but people also seem not to give a crap about all the crap.

India is diverse. This means that it has lots of different languages, food and cultural groups. The food is very nice, and is (in all fairness) a big reason for coming. The cultural groups are very different, united by a common ability to show disregard for one another. Still, in a country of 1.15bn people you can't expect everyone to be Mother Theresa.

I hate to be negative. We are both traveling to, amongst other things, become more open-minded, tolerant and experience different things. However, sometimes you have to call a spade a spade. Tell it like it is.

I came to India expecting an experience, spiritual or otherwise. "You either hate India or love it," said Arty to us in Rio. She was right. Hate is a strong word though. Let's just say neither of us are big fans.

Every destination we visited pales in comparison with others around the world. The north? I'd rather do Bolivia, or Mexico. The south, although beautiful, is still not as wonderful as Thailand, or Queensland, or Guatemala.

And the whole time, hanging over us like a fug, was the spectre of being ripped off, or taken for a ride. It really is hard to relax and warm to people when you can't get them to understand that following you up the street, standing and staring and laughing, or taking photos of you without asking first just isn't endearing. Maybe that's a lot to do with me. For a person who values privacy and time alone, perhaps India was not the best choice.

However, the clincher for me, the reason why India won't be the highlight of my trip, is the incredible proportion of travelers there who turn out to be wankers. Not all of them, mind, just a surprisingly high proportion. Pretentious, anal people who, despite their profession of love and spirituality as the answer to everything, are generally snobbish, unfriendly and aloof.

So maybe that's the problem. In the 70s, The Beatles turned India into an icon of spirituality. A generational symbol, much like Ibiza is today. In doing so, they created a beacon of bullshit that attracts every lost soul with a chip on their shoulder from here to Baghdad.

So maybe I shouldn't blame India so much. Maybe 30 years of dealing with these joyless culture-vultures has tainted the place. Perhaps they expect every foreigner who crosses their shores to be the same, and have altered their behaviour to suit.

Sounds like a pretty vicious circle to me, and one neither of us is keen to experience again.

Day 280 - What a difference 3,000kms makes

2010-02-15T14:00:00.010+11:00

If I were anymore relaxed, I would be dead-set permanently horizontal.

If Bob Marley were sat next to me now, I am so relaxed that I would make him look, in comparison, like a recently-retrenched accountant living in London, complete with ex-wife, mistress and three kids in (extremely expensive) private schools.

I am chilled. And I mean....hold on....no rush....just getting the fingers ready....here we go......easy does it.....chiiiiiiiiiiilleeeeeeed Winston. Yep. That did it.

Now, picking up the thread from last time (when was that exactly? Hmmmmmmmm. Doesn't matter. Now, where was I), I vaguely remember writing about getting on a plane headed south. Something about being stressed? Hoping that 3,000km would make a difference? Yeah. That sounds right.

Oop. Nap break. I'll be right back.

Anyhoooooo. I guess that I was right. To say that north and south are different is like saying that dolphins are mammals and sharks are fish. It's accurate, but it's missing the point. (Hmmm. Decision time. Mango juice or coconut juice? Ummmmm. Can't decide. I'll have both).

So far, the south has been like scuba diving in a jar of honey. Languid, warm and far nicer and cheaper than you'd expect (Hmmmm. Not sure that analogy held up at the end there. But hey, what do I care? I think I'll turn over and tan my back now). And, like sex in the right relationship, things have only got better.

We started in Fort Cochin, which was lovely in a pseudo-Caribbean way. On the edge of the small colonial town, giant (Chinese) fishing nets by the water dip down every twenty or so minutes, pulling out hordes of prawns, crab and fish. You simply mosey on down, select whichever briny creatures take your fancy, have them cooked fresh and wash it all down with ice-cold beer. Too easy.

But, as is wont of Aussies, the lack of a beach began to take its' toll. Sun, sea and seafood are good, but it ain't a proper party without 's' number 4. So we took another train four hours south to Kovalam, which officially bills itself as "India's most developed resort".

We braced ourselves for the worst. I was dreading Surfers' Paradise Indian-style. Instead, we got a perfectly useful beach, hotel room perched atop a 50m cliff and a view to die for.

We had a much-needed few days of beach time, our first since Brasil. My soul continued to float softly down into the big fluffy duvet that life had become. Narmal, our own personal guardian angel, brought us plate after plate of fresh fruit. She took us under her wing.

She told us where to by gin (buying booze in Kerala feels like buying nuclear weapons on the black market). She told us the people to steer clear of. She even took it upon herself to shoe away the regular stream of Indian male 'amateur photographers', day tripping to the beach to take photos of bikini-clad strangers. Subtle as bricks.

Change is as good as a holiday, so they say. Seeing we were on holiday (so another holiday was out of the question), we decided to check out another beach. An hour and a half north took us to Cliff, Verkala.

It's well named. The whole place is arranged around a single path leading along the very edge of a cliff. Bars, restaurants, basic resorts and wooden shacks line it, affording a view out over an even-better beach some 100m down below, as well as the hazy blue of the India Ocean.

By now the tans were coming along nicely. Gone were the pallid traces of our European Christmas. That didn't last long.

The food poisoning hit Rachel first. Mine came two days later. Who knows where it came from? Eggs? Unpurified ice?

Everyone gets sick in India. We were no different. The ayuvedic doctor came. She prescribed a teaspoon of strong smelling spices with honey before food (usually watery rice porridge). 30ml of a dark pungent concoction after.

The first day, we both felt like we were dying. Or that dying would be an easy respite. Our guts ached, stomachs consumed themselves. My eyes rolled back in my head with the ache of my temples. Our muscles felt like they had needles stuck in them.

The second day, food stayed down. By the third, we were back on our feet. The sickness gone, but never forgotten.

Now, we're in Allepey. We are aboard a Backwaters Houseboat. It's like a miniature, floating palace, covered in dried-out water reed. It looks like a hobbit hole being transferred up river on a barge. The sweet smell of Indian spices are wafting down from the kitchen, a promise of the feast to come. We've manouvered through the thin canals (it's known as the Venice of India), watching small bunches of water-weed float past regularly. Now, we are out into the main lake, a hazy mass of water punctuated by the odd fisherman bringing up shellfish nets from the shallow bottom.

There's nothing to do but sit and take it all in. Think. Eat. Chat. Read. Drink. Smile. Laugh. Contemplate the world.

Relax.

A word of note to those back home; whichever morons are running around beating the living hell out of Indians are not only causing irreparable and serious damage to the reputation of Australia worldwide (did media learn nothing from the Cronulla riots?), they are also making it very hard to utter the words "I'm from Australia" out here.

We're both really sick of having to explain to every Indian person we meet that, no, all Australians don't hate Indians and, no, Australia is not dangerous to Indians and, yes, they will be safe if they travel to Australia. Only yesterday I was in a supermarket and picked up a Newsweek-style magazine with a picture of a bashed-Indian man and the title "Why Aussies hate us".

Please get them to stop!

Here are the rest of the photos from Cochin, Kovalam, Varkala and Allepey

Day 272 - Missing Tiger, Hidden Temple

2010-01-27T22:42:00.008+11:00

The first thing we did after stepping off the train in Jaipur was extricate ourselves from a potentially violent encounter between a particularly persistent tout and random hot-headed Scottish bloke who we had very briefly befriended on the train (I know! A Scottish hot head! Who would have thought?).

He seemed upset that Indians were constantly trying to trick him. He seemed to believe that physical violence might provide a solution. I smiled sweetly at his (long?) suffering girlfriend, bravely told everyone involved I didn't know him that well and left.

The second thing we did was correctly identify our hotel pick-up guy. This was made particularly challenging by the existence of three other random individuals, all hell-bent on impersonating said pick-up guy. Suddenly the fact our hotel had provide us with a 'secret' code didn't seem quite so ridiculous.

We may have been in different city, but we were definitely still in India.

Vanood - the authentic, 100% genuine pick-up guy and hotel owner - scooped us up in his arms like children from a sandbox and took us upon our way. Just two kilometres later, the Hotel Krishna Palace greeted us with a four-storey smile that looked like it had stepped right out of the British Raj. My inner child clapped it's hands in joy as we were shown to our room; a marble monstrosity, stretching out as far as the eye could see, punctuated in the middle with a big four poster bed. Moments later, hot water was gushing from the shower head strong and even, steam filling the bathroom. It was bliss. The trials of the past week suddenly seemed a long way away.

Obviously, we stayed longer than planned. We took breakfasts on the lawn (wot wot), ate home-cooked curries on the roof and lazed the days away, marveling at the lack of smog. Not even being chased up the street by an opium-crazed tuk tuk driver, convinced we had agreed a price of 2,000Rps (AUD$50, or 20x the going rate) for a nearly disastrous five-minute trip from the markets, could dampen our spirits. Vanood simply smiled and bade us to our room. Within fifteen minutes the clearly-rooted individual was gone, no doubt to deliver another poppy-induced nightmare unto unsuspecting tourists.

We spent 4 nights in all in Jaipur. It's funky little dust-ball of a city with plenty to do and see, in addition to hanging around letting the accumulated stress of Mumbai and Delhi flow away. The monkey temple was as it says on the packet, with only one attack of The Usual Nonsense ("You want me to give 5,000Rps 'to Ganesh' because you tied this piece of string on my wrist?"). The Red Fort was also impressive and the visit to the Old "Pink" Market, so called because it was painted the traditional Indian celebratory colour for the visit of King George, was a very different kind of shopping trip.

Four days later, we jumped in a car and headed south-east. The promise of wild tiger spotting was not one Mrs Bell could pass over.

Ranthambore National Park is, so the brochures say, the most likely place to see wild tigers in India. Unlike many other national parks in the sub-continent, it has not been rorted by corrupt government officials working in legion with poachers. For some reason, some cultures (Chinese cultures, in particular) believe that eating bits of tiger is good for your health. Personally, I am of the opinion that tiger bits look best attached to tigers. Call me old-fashioned.

The evening safari was an enjoyable jaunt around the park in an open-backed truck. The scenery was nice. The conversation was wonderful. We talked about how amazing it would be to head north to Palm Beach one summers' day with a bunch of mates in a similar type of open-backed truck. We saw deer and elk and the occasional monkey. Mr and Mrs Tiger however, all 40-odd of them, chose not to grace us with their presence.

Next day, we decided to try our luck again. This time, an early morning safari. We enjoyed the very same scenery from the back of the very same open-backed truck. We chatted (more quietly this time) about how not-so-good it was to ride around on frosty early mornings in the previously discussed and very same open-backed truck. Again, no shortage of elks, deer, monkeys and even the odd wild boar and crocodile for good measure. The closest we got to tigers was seeing a paw print on the track.

"I don't believe a word of it", said a dejected Mrs Bell as we piled back into the car for the next stage of our trip,"I don't think there are any tigers here at all"
"What are you suggesting?," I inquired, You think they are lying about the tigers? That the poachers got them all?"
"They can bloody well have them," replied Mrs Bell, stuffing her camera back in her bag. "Stupid kitties"

Note to tigers (and other wild animals in general); you might want to sort your game out a bit. You know, make more of an effort for Mrs B in future. She's not been happy with your collective performances of late (see El Manu post). She's into you, but where is the love in return?

And so, to the final leg of our journey; Agra. This tiny little town, a few hours south of Delhi, is a quite unremarkable and charmless little shithole which I would normally rather plumb the depths of my urethra with a rusty coathanger than visit, if it weren't for one thing. The Taj Mahal.

We'd really mulled this one over. The scummy reputation of Agra (otherwise known as Toutsville) had made us decide against going more than once. However, the warnings of a hundred Indian waiters rang in our ears, "You cannot visit India and not see the Taj Mahal".

So, we mounted Operation "In-and-Out". Arriving late at night, we ducked into our hotel and slept. Then, before the sun had even had a chance to think about rising, we were en-route and on foot to (allegedly) the world's most beautiful building.

You may recall the reason we ended up going first to Jaipur, rather than Agra, was because of fog. Well, it turned out that in the week since our absence exactly SFA had changed. We wandered around in the thick pea-souper for a half hour finding a mosque, restaurant, camel stables and man with no legs crawling down the road until we finally found the western gate of the Taj Mahal.

And so entering the famed complex, we trotted up to the hallowed main gate, ready to be met with another of the most famous photos in the world, and we saw...well, do you remember what happened when we finally got to the sun gate at Machu Pichu? Yep, well this was pretty much exactly the same. Fog. Mist. Smog. Whatever you call it, it weren't the Taj, I can tell thee.

In fact, we didn't catch our first glimpse of the Taj until I nearly walked into it, from about five metres away from it

But here's the thing. Our initial disappointment began to give way to something else. As we wandered around the building, marveling at the huge slabs of porcelain marble and ornate carvings, I became slowly aware that we felt very alone. There was, as far as ours eyes could see, very little evidence of other people. As the Taj slowly appeared and disappeared in the mist, illuminated by the blood-red sunrise burning through, it felt like we had it all to ourselves.

Now, I'm not much of a temple connoisseur. I appreciate the history, splendour, opulence and scale of a good building, but I'm not the "ga-ga" type. Once you've seen one pyramid/ obelisk/ ruined Mayan city/ historical palace/ whatever, they all seem to blend in to each other.

The Taj, however, is nothing short of awe-inspiring. It is the ultimate tribute to love or, as Mrs Bell put it;

"Look at it! Why can't every husband be as generous as him?" she says, with playfully accusative tone, aimed in my direction
"Never mind that, my love. If I were you, I'd be more concerned with trying to work out what she did for him, n'est pas?" I volleyed back with interest. She must have been some woman.

The Taj really is one of those places that photos will never do justice. It's not a big as I thought it would be. Somehow though, sat grandly upon it's 5-metre high marble base, it looks enormous. Grandiouse. Ethereal. At times, I had to wonder whether it was truly of this plane of existence, or whether it was floating there ready to phase out into another dimension at a moments' notice.

And another thing they never tell you about the Taj; the acoustics in the main burial chamber are amazing. I could have sat there all day listening to the surreal cacophony being generated simply by people speaking softly within its' walls.

Tomorrow, we head back to Delhi. The day after, we will be far south, in Kerala. I can't say I have loved the north. It is a manic pace of life that doesn't appeal. However, things have improved since that first few days in the country.

Now, let's see what difference 3,000kms makes.

Photos from Jaipur, Ranthambore and Agro, I mean Agra

Day 268 - First impressions of India

2010-01-21T20:00:00.016+11:00

Truth time; I´m struggling. I truly am.

India scared me from the start. Nonetheless, when we made the decision to alter our itinerary (sayonara wintry, budget-busting Turkey), we jumped into the idea of spending an additional ten days in the sub-continent. After all, everyone loves India. Right?

Well, so far it seems: everyone but us.

Mumbai came first. It was so stressful I wrote a haiku. It goes a little like this:

Mumbai, old Bombay
So big, scary, smelly too.
Don't poo on my head!

Craziness, that´s what Mumbai is. Traffic! Noise! Pollution! Scud taxis! Like You Have Never Seen Before. A seething human soup, bubbling away like botulism. It´s like it was designed by a kid with ADHD, a pack crayons and a serious grudge against little cartoon houses with picket fences. The curry was good though, obviously.

We went shopping. It only made matters worse. Two days later the missus and I agreed. It was time to get away. We´d been told to head up north by train. We packed up, bid goodbye to our room/cell and did as suggested.

You know how crowded it can get at rush hour in Wynyard? You know how you can sometimes have to line-up for as long as ten minutes to get a ticket? Well, buying train tickets in Mumbai makes rush hour in Wynyard look like a bloke in a field swinging a cat. 100 different windows. More options than a BMW brochure. No queuing system in sight. This is what the phrase ¨organised chaos¨ was invented for.

Onto the train we boarded. 16 hours north to Delhi. And, in all fairness, a rather enjoyable journey it was too. If there is one thing that cannot be faulted, ´tis India Rail (no. of commuters: 1.15 billion). It really does put City Rail (population; 4 million) to shame.

How was Delhi? Well, pretty much the same, only colder and even more full-on. Even more poverty everywhere. More scams than the http://www.snopes.com/ database (for non-internet geeks, the metaphor; ¨an episode of Only Fools and Horses¨ may work better). Seemingly little, if any, concept of personal space or a desire for privacy.

It was not going well. I spent my days deliberately ignoring people as they chased me along streets trying to sell me goods and services I neither needed nor wanted, dodging rogue traffic, being stared at and generally wishing people would stop treating me like a stupid, walking wallet. Then, everything got even worse.

We booked tickets to travel to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. We got up at 5:30am to get to the station. The train got canceled due to fog. We went to another station to get a later train, only to be told all trains were full for two days. We changed our plans and decided to head for Jaipur. We bought our ticket then went downtown to kill time. We bought a sim card for my mobile. We discovered the ticket guy had booked us the wrong day. We made our way back through the seething masses, peddlers, beggars and scam artists to the train station, where I then discovered the sim and credit for my phone had not been activated as promised.

To recap, at this point we were stuck in a seething mass of a city, with no place to sleep, a phone that wasn´t working, a ticket for a train leaving next day, an empty belly, no beer in sight and a rapidly declining sense of patience.

But then, something odd started to happen. The ticket guy managed to squeeze us onto the right train. A guy selling scarves in the bazaar didn´t try and rip us off, but instead proceeded to sort out my phone problems. We even managed to make the train just before it pulled out of the station, even when we thought we´d missed it. Outside the window, the sun began to show through the perpetual fog that had masked the city for two days.

I still don´t get it. All around me I see poverty, struggle, filth and the crumbling heritage of an enduring culture. I see chaos and, like surely so many before me, find myself asking how such chaos can function. ¨It has been this way for thousands of years¨, comes back the rather vaccuous response, ¨it just works¨

Yes, I understand that. I understand that India´s social system has endured for far longer than my own. However, it still doesn´t work for me as an explanation. Is the fact that it has been this way for that so long and produced this, justification for it ¨working¨?

I write this now en route to Jaipur. Rachel is sitting opposite me, mouth akimbo as she sleeps and the Indian countryside drifts gently past. We both need to get away from the madness of Indian cities. People, people everywhere, simply no space to think.

Maybe in a weeks´ time, away from the cities and into the towns, I´ll be able to write and tell you how I finally get it. How it all just clicked and I saw India for the amazingly spiritual country it really is. How I´m coming around to being a more rounded, patient and deeply grounded person who really understands what life is all about (man).

Then again, perhaps not. Perhaps I will still look out of the window and see a developing country whose economic miracle seems built upon the exploitation of people by morally-culpable corporations using low wages to achieve 15% year on year-on-year profit. Meanwhile, children eat from garbage bins metres from where the same corporates´ call centres answer our calls and wish us a good day.

I don´t know which it will be. But, hey, I guess that´s why I´m here. Right?

All the photos from picturesque Mumbai and Delhi.

Day 259 - Checking out the Nether regions

2010-01-13T18:55:00.008+11:00

In 1946, shortly after the end of World War II, a young boy was born to a large Catholic family in the Dutch town of Nijmegen, not more than 30 kilometres from the German border. He was, by all accounts, a strong and willful child and it came as little surprise when, at the tender age of 22, he left home to make his way in the world. He took a job as a chef - the cooking tradition ran deep in this family - on board a cruise liner in the Holland-America Lines company.

He traveled the world for sometime, no doubt enjoying the pleasures of each port of call in between his long hours. One fine day, his boat docked in Sydney. Who knows what forces were at play that day, but the man decided to end his tenure and instead make his home in the Great Southern Land.

Years passed and the man married. He made a home, first in Bexley then in Illawong, and brought up two fine children; a boy and a girl.

One night, his daughter was out with friends for the night and met a boy. They liked each other and eventually married. Then, one day nine years later, they too replicated the footsteps of the man and made their choice to see the world.

That in a nutshell, is how Rachel and I ended up in a car, traveling around the worlds´ lowest country.

We set out from the ´Dam one cold frosty Monday morning. NYE was still ringing in our heads. We'd lingered in the capital for a few days further, mostly to spend some time with Rachel's family and pass a throughly enjoyable evening with Taz and Nic, as they passed through the city en route to Austria.

However, we were both determined not to fall into the trap of hanging in the capital. Most tourists rarely get out of Amsterdam, if they even manage to make it out of the red light district. However, if they did, here is what they would find out.

The Netherlands is very small. If you really wanted to, I´m guessing you could get around it in a day. We chose to take a more leisurely pace. Our week-long journey consisted of a loop, heading north out of Amsterdam via Groningen, Appeldoorn, Arnhem, Nijmegen (of course!), Maastricht, a strictly non-Dutch dinner-date in Bruges (to mark B off the alphabet dating list), then back to the ´Dam via Utrecht.

The Dutch seem fiercely proud of their country and of their history. Throughout the countryside is a definite air of preservation. Like Amsterdam, most cities seem to have developed over time with a deliberate focus on retaining their medieval nature. History seems somehow more important here than in, say, London for example, where ancient gothic cathedrals often share a street with hideous 70s shoe box towers.

It's also fairly easy to see why the Netherlands is the most densely populated country on earth, a fact that used to seem preposterous every time I heard it. As the kilometres ticked by on the open road, I was aware that the moment one small town would disappear, another would appear over the horizon in no time at all.

And what small towns there are. Picturesque little clusters of neatly-arranged, identikit homes arranged around logical town squares, with the odd antique windmill thrown in for good measure.

Logical is a good word for it. The Netherlands seems so logical. It's logical for it to be neat and tidy, so it is. It's logical for there to be good public transport, so there is. Hell, it's logical to allow people to buy whatever they want wherever they want, so they can.

Then again, logic disappears when confronted with Dutch roads. Road signage suddenly disappearing never to be seen again, cocky bikes who can do no wrong in the eyes of the law coming at you from all sides and parking costs that would make your accountant blush. Did I mention that, outside of Amsterdam, the Netherlands is not a place for tourists?

However, there are some superb places, which funnily enough I think I enjoyed all the more because of the snowy embrace they were locked in. Volendam, barely north of Amsterdam, is an amazing little fishing village, where we got to walk across a frozen bay (think Sydney Harbour-sized and frozen) to watch ice sailors speed on past. Sleen, a tiny little village that looks like it fell straight out of It's a Wonderful Life. Arnhem and it's 1000+ shoe shops. The old square in Nijmegen with pubs that look like they've been pulled forward in time from the 1500s. The living museums that are Maastricht and Bruges (yes, I know it's in Belgium. However, according to many Belgians that may be simply a matter of time). The same goes for The Netherlands' largest student town, Utrecht.

However, special mention must be saved for last. When Rachel said she wanted to take me to a Dutch amusement park, based around the theme of fairy tales, in the middle of deep winter, I was naturally a little dubious. I am so glad I went.

The Efteling, for me, sums up what it is about the Netherlands that makes it so unique. In a world of Disneyland, consumerism, the sexualisation of children, Bratz, Lindsey & Britney, Fast Food and Playstation, it is incredible this place still exists. This is not a theme park of giant rollercoasters (though there are some), adrenaline thrills and buy, buy, BUY merchandising. Instead, it's a place of f grottos and round-the-world anamatorics that look like they stepped out of Willy Wonka's factory. An ice skating rink. Cross country ski course. A fairy tale land made of toadstool houses and quaint little thatched homes. A full-sized Persian Palace straight out of Aladin. All covered in that magical white dust we call snow.

The Efteling is a place of imagination. Everyone should take their kids there and watch their eyes pop out of their heads. Even better, lend them to me and I'll take them.

All the photos Rachel took of her favourite Nether regions are here. Ooo missus.

Day 249 - New Years(h) and more in Ams(h)terdam

2010-01-01T20:44:00.004+11:00

Look at that over there", says Iwan pointing out a reveler dressed all in orange, except for a sole, spangley, silver bow tie,¨That's typical Dutch¨

It´s a phrase Iwan has used a lot over the past few days. Again, he's right. It's amazing how such a diminutive country can claim so much that is distinctly unique. The food, the desserts, hugely popular trance DJs with egos to make a deity blush, dykes, windmills, tulips, splitting a bill, canals, wheels of cheese, that assured sense of confidence and a football team that would probably be the worlds´ best if only they could stop arguing amongst themselves.

Strangely though, Iwan had never heard of a Dutch oven. So, I explained it to him and suggested he give it a go with his wonderful girlfriend, Julia.

Rachel and I first met Iwan and Julia, in Lake Atitlan, Guatemala, many moons and a life time ago. We were like ships passing in the night, but all enjoyed each others´ company. Iwan owns a boat company in Amsterdam and Utrecht and, as most of his fleet would be out of the water during winter, he invited us to Amsterdam to be shown an oranje New Years´.

Amsterdam greeted us with the same wintry how-ya-doin' as England. It seemed the whole of Europe was locked in the same snowy embrace, though strangely the Netherlands seemed to be dealing with it somewhat better than most.

Customs was easy. Well, for me at least. Rachel, on the other hand, got a hard time from the uniformed officer for having a Dutch passport but not speaking Dutch. This was to become a recurring theme during the holiday.

"Do you speak Dutch?", says customs officer (or Dutch person who has just found out Rachel has Dutch nationality).
"No", says Rachel, knowing what's coming.
"But you have a Dutch passport?", says customs officer
"Yes", replies embarrassed-looking Rach.
"Terrible", replies unimpressed customs officer, indicating the encounter is now over.

We made our way quickly to the home of one of Rachel's old friends, Renae. Renae moved to the 'Dam seven years ago, where she met the love of her life. Her invitation to stay in her home, even whilst she headed north for New Year with her new family, was a god-send. Her spare room came equipped with a double bunk bed; and I mean a bunk bed which is a double bed. Brilliant!

We set about exploring Amsterdam, beginning with meeting Iwan not far from the central shopping district in Amsterdam, the Leidseplein. It was there my culinary education began.

"Try this", offered Mr de Ploeg that first day, handing me a length of harring (raw herring) doused in onions and pickles, "it's typical Dutch". Rachel declined, claiming (with some justification) she has been made to eat her lifetime fair share of harring already.

Foul as it may sounds, it's actually quite palatable. Kind of like a fishier, slimier version of sushi. Rachel relented and joined in, noting how much better it tasted now she was older. We both made a mental note to introduce harring to Taz and Nic they arrived a few days later (see here for Nics' classic reaction).

Amsterdam is one of those cities that is very easy to wander around. That's exactly what we did with the last two days of 2009. First with Iwan's help, then later solo. We bought things we really shouldn't have bought, ate food we really shouldn't have eaten (frites with thick mayonaisse, frikandel, croquettes and appelflop) and soaked up the ambience of one of the worlds' indisputably most beautiful cities.

Even in temperatures dipping below zero, it was impossible not to occasionally stare out the window of the latest cafe into which you have taken a hot-chocolaty refuge and think 'wow'.

So, things came to pass. Three days shopping, eating and drinking later, there we stood. Smack-bang in the middle of the dancefloor at Knalfuif, just one of the many NYE parties in Amsterdam, as the clock slowly approached midnight.

Then, as Iwan pointed out to me the many items of genuine Dutch-ness, I slowly and ominously became aware of one trait not so typically Dutch.

When it comes to parties, fancy dress in Australia tends to be more popular than Bob Hawke in an RSL. That night, it dawned on me that the same wasn't true of the Netherlands.

We had been told the theme was 'space'. We went at it with enthusiasm. We shopped for great costumes that would do us and Australia proud, in this city of 'crayshy' party-people.

However, as we stood in the middle of the packed dancefloor surrounded on all sides by fashionistas and beautiful people, we took a long hard look at ourselves. Rachel, dressed in a Virgin Galactic hostess outfit that wouldn't look out of place in a lingerie magazine. Myself dressed as Captain Kirk. You could say we felt a little out-of-place.

It's hard to look cool when you're the Star Trek geek in a nightclub. Even when you get to take the hot hostess girl home afterward.

2010. Live long and prosper.

The Amsterdam photos are here. Isn't that weird?

Day 241 - Christmas in Wales, and England

2009-12-25T12:09:00.008+11:00

It's December 22nd, about 2:30am. Roughly four hours have passed since we phoned the hotel to tell them we were 10 miles away. Nick is driving extra-ordinarily well, given the slightest wrong move on the snow-covered roads would send us into a hedge. The mood in the car is flat. We have been driving for ten hours straight. We have traveled just 25 miles.

Today, it snowed in England. Quite a bit.

Rach and I have traveled dirt roads in Bolivia where you have to hold a hankie to your mouth simply to breath. We've held it together whilst our spines turned to jelly on chicken buses in Belize. We've spent two days becalmed in the Caribbean Sea and ridden out three metre waves in a storm to end all storms. We've walked the Inca Trail, hiked up a volcano and trapsed through insect-infested swamps.

None of this compares to the trials of a trip from Heathrow to High Wycombe.

It's all so very English. It's not clear why, but for some reason this extreme snowfall seems to have caught the country by surprise. Snow? In England? No! Surely not?

England has, quite literally, ground to a halt. Motorists sit immobile in traffic jams on snow-covered country lanes. Talk radio is alive with stories of 15 min journeys taking 7 hours. Sports centres and churches are converted into emergency shelters for those who can't get home. Ordinary folk come out of their homes to provide tea and chocolate to weary travelers. It's a big slice of Blitz spirit, Xmas 2009 version.

Then, shortly before 2:30am, we slide down a hill and power up the other side to see heaven emerge from behind a hedge. Bright, giant lights appear in the windshield, proclaiming we have reached 'The Crown Pub". We made it! A bed is ours for the night.

And not just any bed! Underfloor heating! Satellite television! A bar which is still open at this ungodly hour! Never in my life have I suffered so much yet been so happy to do so.

Welcome back to England.

Fast forward a day. We're in Wales. It's 10pm and cold. The snow crunches underfoot as we make our way slowly toward the farmhouse on the hill. My father's car has passed us twice already. Once, as it made it's way down to the main road to pick up Fran and Nick. Despite the impressive performance to date of the rental car, it simply couldn't make it up the final mile of ice-encrusted Welsh lane. We hid behind a tree as he sped past, oblivious.

On the way back, Dad drives a different route. We are caught in the headlights, no place to hide. We put our heads down and trudge on, pretending to be locals, walking like farmers. It works! He doesn't notice that it's us, 13,000 miles from where we should be.

Now, we're making our way toward the farmhouse door. Dad answers. Surprise! He looks shocked. What are you doing here?! We laugh, come inside and have a drink. Everyone is here. Nephew Phoinix and neice Jamzyn are bigger. My sister Tania and my Dad are smaller. I meet the new addition to the family; Zara, a huge Rhodesian Ridgeback. We all congratulate ourselves on pulling off the surprise. We 're together, in snowy Wales, for Christmas.

It's now the 25th December. It's Christmas Day.

The kids buzz around the tree like dragonflies in a swamp. They pluck presents from underneath the tree, handing them out to the lucky recipients one-by-one. Everyone has been so kind and generous. Zara inspects each piece of empty wrapping only when she is sure it contains no food. Then, she moves on to the next.

Yesterday evening, we phoned absent family and friends far across the seas. There were smiles, and there were tears. Speaking, as always, reminds you of what you are missing.

We gorge ourselves. Sian, my wonderful secret-keeping stepmother, has done the work of ten men (which converts to roughly three women). Turkey, ham, spuds with cranberry sauce, sprouts, honeyed carrots, stuffing and sweet potato. We pull crackers and talk too loudly. Chocolates and Welsh cheese follow as we watch the Doctor Who and Gavin and Stacey finales. Outside, the snow is no longer falling, but the hills remain dusted with a light covering. The air is cold, clear and crisp, and the Southern Cross is no-where to be seen.

This is Christmas, UK style.

All the trip from hell photos are here and the Xmas photos here

Day 232 - Rio de Janiero

2009-12-16T09:33:00.003+11:00

"People," begins Elliot, swizzling his cocktail stick, "well, I say people, I mean four friends of mine..."

He pauses to note, as if for the first time, the garish pink drink in front of him, as well as an expectant Alex the barman.

On the TV, the latest unforgivable gaff by a quarterback named Fitzgerald is being broadcast to the world.

Elliot takes a moment to sample his drink from the straw, then nods to Alex to indicate the cocktail is good. Alex scuttles happily back to his cocktail mixing station.

"Ya, well that's about it really. My friends give me their money, and I come to Brazil and find ways of investing it". Then, as indicated, that's about it. Elliot leans back into his chair, brushes his fop of blond hair from his eyes and continues to drink.

Not a bad life. Very Rio de Janiero.

This bar, Blue Agave, is situated two blocks black from Ipanema Beach. It is small, but well set out. It has new fittings and fixtures and a giant plasma above the bar, showing pirate ESPN. It has a comfortable feel to it; part New York Tavern, part Miami tequila den. I have already decided I shall drink here all week long. I pick up a vibe that Rachel feels the same way.

It's a new bar. We know this because the owners have told us. They have told us many things. The history of their travels around the world, how they came to be in Brazil, why they decided to start the bar, why it's a Mexican bar; even why they think Rio needs this kind of bar. Even when I think the conversation is over - for example when they walk off in mid-conversation to deal with something more interesting than me - they invariably return minutes later to resume talking at me without missing a beat.

The best way of dealing with this, I have found, is to simply order another caiprinha, smile and be a CCC person (Cool, Calm and Collected). No siree! Bore or no bore, I will be friendly. I shall be polite.

In truth, I am having a Great Night, so I don't really mind too much.

My head is swimming with the warm fuzz of the greatest liquor known to man: cachaca. I am engulfed in a combined alcohol and sugar buzz that feels, I conclude without any accurate basis of comparison whatsoever, like being embraced in the bosom of a oversized pair of breasts sitting atop a warm tumble dryer in mid-spin.

Malik arrives a little later. We are yet to know it but Malik and us, we are going to have some fun over the next few days. He will introduce us to a whole group of Rio expats (including, quite coincidentally, Elliot once again, although they don't know each other at this point). They will lead us astray. Including into a favela at 3am. Anyway, I digress.

My tacos arrive. They are spicy and spartan. I am reminded of Mexico again. Malik is talking about Ipanema and DJs. Mexico loses out and I tune in to Malik.

"I love coming to Brazil," Malik says in his booming baritone. "Everytime I get a chance to bring a DJ out here, I jump at it. I mean; what about that beach! What about the food! What about the party to be had!"

As well as being a man with a fun job (DJ management), he's also right. Rio is fun. Rio is Sydney's older sister, but better looking and more of a handful. Same sea, harbour, sun & fun concept. Much, much bigger scale.

Like Sydney, Rio cares a lot about what she looks like. She is a proud independent (amicable divorce some years ago) woman of mixed heritage. Young, fun and easy on the eye.

Compared to her baby sister though, Rio is less neurotic. Far wilder. Untamed. A little dangerous, even. She lets it all hang out. Let her in to show you a good time and she'll send you home to Mama with an itch you'll never be able to scratch.

Meanwhile, Christ (the Redeemer) stands arms spread wide, watching over her from above. Rio denizens says that the day the city stops her wild and wicked ways, when she finally gets down to some good old fashioned hard work, the Redeemer will clap.

Malik and I start to talk football. He's a Liverpool fan, but we can't all be perfect. Rachel, meanwhile, talks to Malik's friend, Corrally. Corrally teaches water polo and has the scars to prove it. Alex begins to juggle bottles. Three big, blonde Swedish guys viking into the bar at 100mph. Rachel recommends they read Steig Larsson's books. They teach us how to pronounce Swedish names properly. Stuff happens and nothing happens. We drink and eat and smile. Rio buzzes on nicely in the background.

At 4am, we head on to fresh pastures. Still, Rio keeps on going. And going. And going. She's like an energizer bunny with a samba wiggle, draped in yellow, green and blue. Wiggle, wiggle. Drums, drums. You can sleep when you're dead.

Far up on the hill, JC looks on,
not a clap in sight.

Photos from Rio can be perused here. Todo bom :)

Day 226 - The rain in Brasil falls mainly on me (in Trindade)

2009-12-09T09:25:00.000+11:00

My clothes are wet and refuse to dry. A faint smell of wet squats in our room, refusing to move out. The ' ' key no longer works on my com uter (I think it's the humidity), meaning I am facing writing an entire novel without it. uck it.

It has been raining for four days solid. Trindade ( rounced "Trin-da-jay) - this small Brazilian beach town four hours south of Rio - is in danger of being washed down the hill, over the beautiful sandy beaches and off into the angry surf beyond. The roads have turned into rivers of mud, and the heavens above form a gloomy barrier against the sun we are all willing to emerge.

Short-term holiday makers grumble, knowing every second lost to the deluge is a second closer to returning back to normal life. Long-termers like us scheme as to what to do. Should we head further north? Or stay here and wait it out? In the meantime, we make do with watching films, reading or considering the nature our navels.

It's not Trindades' fault. Our itinerary was good. It was true and righteous. In the uber-ranking of itineraries it shone brightly with a golden light and sweet, jangly music that indicated its' godliness and wonderful nature.

After the considerable hustle and bustle of Sao Paolo, we needed some beach time. Brazil's largest and most ethnically diverse city is a dizzying metro olis. The culinary collision of a hundred different cultures may have ensured a diversity of cuisine to make a steak-and-red-wine-weary mouth melt, but it has also created the worlds' largest 24-7 traffic jam. It's really a city to go to meet friends, or else best to move onward. Or, in our case northward. The town Of Paraty is only a single vowel from being the word Party; surely worth a visit on this fact alone?

One beach out of town - Jabaquala Beach - we found ourselves a small flatlet with a rickety old balcony overlooking the beach. One beach out of town and a world away from Paratys' colonial tourism. It's a cute little town, just twenty minutes walkover the hill, but we wanted a world away from restaurant hawkers, costly cai rinhas and men selling useless trinkets and other shiny things.

Our beach was somewhat more sedate. A one-mercado town, where horses wander around town and on the beach, and small kiosks selling fresh fish and cold beer do business seemingly whenever they feel like it. The kind of beachside town you know your Grandma would love.

In between cooking fabulous home meals in the tiny kitchenette, Rachel made secret lans. A boaty jaunt out to the many islands just off the coast. Eighty foot yacht, fresh fruit, secret beaches, BBQ lunch. A Friday to remember.

Then, that morning it started raining. We moved the boat 'til Saturday.The next day, it showed few signs of abating. We made a call. Nobody wants to cruise the islands on a rainy day. We would head 40 mins south to the tiny, wee hamlet of Trindade.

Trindade is the town where Brazilian travelers come to lie on the beach, eat acai and moqueca (coconut fish stew), drink fresh young coconuts and surf the monster waves. It feels like the end of the world, somewhere between the Caribbean and the Brazil of your dreams. Few locals are fluent in English, exce t for George, owner of Kaissara hostel.

All that was missing was the sun.

Day 1 wasn't all bad. Sure, it was cloudy, but it was warm. We had a frolic on the beach, marveling (well, I marveled) at the material differences between Aussie and Brazilian bikinis. In the evening, we had a BBQ, drank cacacha (sugar cane rum) and had a crack at the most dangerous drinking card game known to man. It lead to more cacacha, tri to a local bar, more cacacha, dancing and, finally, bedtime at 3am.

Next day, it rained. No matter! We ate moqueca, trawled for new swimwear (wife in Brazilian bikini; tick!) and watched the town go nuts as Flamengo clinched the Brazilian title on the last day of the football season.

Monday, still it rained. We began to run out of things to do, not to mention dry clothes. Holidaymakers began to drain out of town; some because the weekend was over, others because of the rain. Maybe it will clear tomorrow? Yeh! It'll clear tomorrow.

Tuesday was massage day. And read-your-book day. And write-a-novel-on-your-com uter with no ' ' day. News came that Sao P aolo was flooded. A river had burst it's banks. Still, the rain came drifting down.

It's now Wednesday. We've decided to stay here for the moment. One beach is the same as any other in a rainstorm. At least we've got the hostel to hang out in. And we have Anchorman to watch. And Rachel's halfway through her book.

I wonder when the rain will sto ?

Those images things (that start with that letter I don't have on my keyboard) are here: from Sao Paolo and from Parati and Trindade

Day 212 - A retrospective on two months in Buenos Aires

2009-11-25T15:20:00.000+11:00

It's been a while since my last entry. The truth is until now, I haven't had much that I'd wanted to write about. It's not that there wasn't a lot to tell, more the feeling that doing so would have been like trying to write a movie review during the intermission. Or trying to write about Australia by describing each person who lives there.

Let me explain.

In my mind - and simplifying things in an unbearably one-dimension manner - there are roughly three types of travel.

You've got your Holiday. A joyously modern but often depressingly short jaunt into foreign climes. This involves doing your utmost to relax as much as possible as quickly as possible, then trying to do as much as possible whilst still retaining the newly-found relaxed state. People on Holiday don't have time to wander around a neighborhood wondering which restaurant is best or which bars to hang out in. They need it quick and they need it NOW. Which, given time constraints, is fair enough.

Then there is Traveling. Now, I'm not going to try and argue the difference between a bunch of trust-fund twenty-somethings going to countries based on how cheap the booze is vs people looking for something more. I'll leave that to those who care far more than I do. Let me instead offer the interpretation that Traveling is about a lack of concrete plans. About going to a place with no strict idea about when you're going to leave, then staying 'til you get bored or get wind of another place further along the track. Then repeating until you run out of money and/or planet.

Then there is what I'd label an Experience. It's something that seems to be very important to us Gen X and Gen Y lot, in perhaps the same way that Possessions used to be to the Boomers (less so these days, mind) and in the way I suspect Connections are to my younger brothers' generation.

Which brings me, in a very roundabout but hopefully clear manner, to the crux of my rant. When, back in another world and another time, Rachel and I sat planning our trip and decided to devote two whole months to Buenos Aires, we did it to have an Experience that would be greater than could be gained by spending simply a week or two.

I like to think we leave Buenos Aires with more than just a fleeting glimpse of a city. Instead, we've seen something far more interesting. We have, in a very small way, glimpsed the hidden underbelly otherwise known as day-to-day life.

Are you with me now? My lack of blog is because I didn't want to write one page entries on visiting Recoleta cemetery, or eating a fat steak, or watching a football game. What I wanted to write is about what it's like to live in a city like Buenos Aires.

Which is a bit like this.

Buenos Aires is a beautiful city. That fact is really quite undebatable. From the Old World charm of San Telmo, to the Old World money of Recoleta and the New World chic of Palermo, it oozes class. It is the bastard child of Paris and Barcelona spat out at the beginning of the end of the world.

It's also a complete pain in the arse to get around. The pavements are painfully narrow and you take your chances ducking and weaving between the considerable crowds of people in a similar predicament, desperately hoping the multi-coloured buses don't kill you first, either by mounting the curb at breakneck pace or with good old carbon monoxide poisoning. And don't even bother to try jogging here. BA is definitely not a city for the exercise nut.

It's also pretty poor. The contrast is enormous. I remember watching a Porsche pull up at a set of lights, next to the spot where a family were sorting through rubbish, feeding themselves as they did so.

What makes that even more surprising is the fact that, by Australian standards, Buenos Aires is cheap beyond belief. Sure, there are tourist traps in each neighbourhood (or barrio), but if you are shopping at your local supermarket, it is truly insane what things cost. A kilo of exquisite steak for AU$5. A bottle of great wine leaves you change for a tenner. Enough veggies to make a fat salad for less than a quarter of the price of an hours' parking in Sydney CBD.

If you should choose to venture out, there are some great restaurants. Standard in Palermo will forever be one of my favourite restaurants of all time. The 800g, oven roasted (in its' own juices) bife de chorizo is a meal that I recommend everyone takes their Dad/ Mum/ Best Friend all the way to BA simply to enjoy.

That said, there are some shockers too. There is a proud history of gaucho (cowboy) culture in Argentina, which seems to have given rise to the attitude that cooking steak is something that every Argentinian male innately knows how to do, rather than needs to learn. There is also a distinct lack of variety of cuisine, probably for the same reason. And for some strange reason, service standards in 99% of restaurants in Argentina simply don't exist

Buenos Aires is also world famous for its' nightlife. Well, I'm gonna piss on that parade a little and say; yes and no. Maybe my concept of nightlife is different. We tried, we really did. However, after tucking into a bottle of red wine and a steak at 11pm, I found it really hard to get into the concept of heading out to a bar that won't start filling til 1am, then onto a club that will be empty until 4am, to dance until sunrise.

There are some really fun bars. Dui Dui in Palermo was our favourite. We also went to some really beautiful ones, like Milion (which, for some strange reason, Melissa George was hanging around in) or Gran Bar Danzon, but the truth is I found them all a bit showy. Too much standing around sipping cocktails watching everyone watching everyone, and not enough c'mon-lets-ave-it. Oh, and Crobar, in contrast, is the worst excuse for an adult school disco I've ever been to. I've listened to longer and better quality mixes from Jive Bunny than at that travesty of a nightspot. Which all adds up the the conclusion that BA nightlife is more hit and miss than trying to pull at a Gay Mardi Gras after party.

And the portenos, as the denizens of BA call themselves? Generally, very stand-offish. Until, that is, you demonstrate that a) you are not from the USA, and, b) you speak Spanish. From that magic point onwards, they show themselves for what they are. Which is some of the warmest, most honest, straight-up, tolerant and friendly peoples I have met in South America.

I don't mean to be BA-centric. There is plenty on offer outside of the capital. Mendoza is a wine region to rival any picture postcard sent back from Bordeaux, with (red) wine that is $ for $ way ahead. Particularly the di Tomasso family and Tempus Alba in the Maipu region, for anyone who is keen on specifics. Iguazu is a natural spectacle that is not only awe-inspring, but must surely make anybody who has been to Niagara wonder why they bothered. I remember being there, watching the school excursions and thinking how pitiful in comparison a good old Aussie school trip to Jenolan Caves or Canberra truly is.

At the end of the day, what two months is Buenos Aires showed was simply that it is a Proper City. Huge, murky and a hard nut to crack. I am still nowhere near truly having its' measure.

At first, I wasn't sure. I'd read so much, built up so many hopes and ideas of what BA would be. The first week or two, I found myself wondering what the fuss was about. Everything seemed so hidden. Almost as if everyone else knew where to go and what to do, except me.

Then things began to change. I began to understand the heavily-accented Spanish a little more. A mental-map of the city started to take shape. I began to understand, still imperfectly but a little better, which bars or restaurants would be good to go to and when. Things started to click.

Friends from Australia made it all the more special. There is nothing like seeing a familiar face in a strange place Exploration is so much more fun when the blind wandering is shared. Steve, Jenni, Esther; seeing you and sharing the food, wine and conversation was a double whammy. I, we, both loved seeing friends again. However, it did remind us so terribly of your absence when you left. But in a good way :)

Wednesday, the day before Rach and I were set to leave, we went for another meal at Standard. We ate the 800g steak (again), drank red wine, then went to Dui Dui for cocktails. Then it hit us.

We may well be back here again. Hopefully, we'll have cause to pass a week or two immersing ourselves in this old, dirty, cheap, amazing city. We'll walk the streets and remind ourselves of the first time we came. We'll talk about the food we had, the places we visited and the conversations we had. Old memories will come flooding back.

However, it will be a holiday. At best, we may be traveling. It's very unlikely that we will ever Experience Buenos Aires again. That fact alone makes me very sad indeed.

However, as they say; don't frown because it's over, smile because it happened. And, for all it's faults, Buenos Aires is a city that made me, us, smile.

The photos from BA here ,here and here , Mendoza here and here, and Iguazu here.

In case anyone is interested, we rented this apartment in San Telmo for the two months. I'd recommend it as a good base if Palermo is out of your price range. Contact Martin at mbueno@allbuenosairesapartments.com. He is a fine host. Please be sure to mention my name.

Day 155 - Body clock reassignment in Buenos Aires

2009-10-27T10:35:00.009+11:00

There are some things that you take for granted in this diverse world of ours. The sun comes up in the morning. You have breakfast, lunch then dinner. Then you go to bed. Except in Buenos Aires.

We found an apartment four days after we arrived. It was real shame to leave our pokey, cheaply renovated, situated-on-top-of-a-nightclub-that-didn't-close-until-6am hostel-pretending-to-be-a-BnB, but we dealt with it and moved on. We're resilient like that.

We both agreed that the apartment was a steal. It's a big, white open plan apartment that wouldn't look out of place in some Hollywood film, such as Basic Instinct or maybe even Flesh Gordon 6. It was also remarkably good value, as it happens to be located on the border between San Telmo and La Boca, the latter being one of the most notorious neighbourhoods (or barrios) in BA.

The truth is though that it really isn't that dangerous. San Telmo reminds me a bit of Newtown in Sydney. There are a few dodgy characters hanging around, but really nothing to be all that worried about. The history of it is that the citys' oldest barrio used to be home to the city's elite, until various epidemics sent them packing in the 19th century. Ownership then passed to newly arrived poor immigrant families, until it's recent resurgence. As a result, San Telmo has a certain run-down charm to it. It's main street, Defensa, is crowded with overpriced antique shops, similarly-priced designer boutiques and the odd quaint little bars.

It's a nice place to stay, with the benefit of being full of extraordinarily low-priced butchers, greengrocers and supermarkets. Hell, even the corner shops can sell you a freshly cut sirloin for the extortionate price of around AU$4 a kilo.

However, whilst a great place to hang, there's more to Buenos Aires than a single barrio. Which brings me to my first point.

Rach and I have become accustomed to waltzing into a city, quickly establishing the things to see and places to go and being out of there within a week, happy we've got what we came for. Buenos Aires is different.

It's a big place; a very vibrant city. We started our exploration in Palermo - which is a bit like the BA version of Paddington - and there it soon became clear how much there is to get through. Never mind the bars, cafes, restaurants and boutiques you can see, it's the ones hidden behind unmarked doors that you're really looking for.

I remember when I first came back to live in Sydney. I remember the day I came to the conclusion that Sydney was a city that takes at least a year to become acquainted with. Well, BA is the same.

But what makes it especially strange is the hours people keep. The phrase "city that never sleeps" gets banded about all too easily. I've been out in New York at ungodly hours and seen eveything positively closed. Try finding a restaurant open in Mexico City late on a Sunday evening. Realistically, there is nowhere you'd want to be drinking in Sydney after normal closing time. BA, however, turns things on it's head.

I'd read about BA's odd hours, but I didn't believe it. Until I saw it. You can be in a restaurant after midnight and catch people still coming in for dinner. Bars simply don't start to hum until after 1am. Nobody even bothers trying to get to a club before 3am.

It really does take some getting used to. The first few times, we headed out for a late dinner (steak, of course. You kind of feel you have to to begin with) and a bottle of red wine, and next thing you know it's 1am and you're ready for bed.

It's not easy. I'm not even sure I like it yet. I've always been a "safe-and-sound-back-home-before-the-sun-comes-up" kind of guy". As Lily Allen said, being out after sunrise just doesn't feel right.

However, we've slowly got increasingly (though not completely) used to it and discovered that the key lies in making two changes to the way you live.

First secret is; siesta. Now, if there is a practice I would like to bring back with me, it's the concept of getting your head down for three hours every afternoon. Sublime.

The second is a change of pace. The pace here seems a little slower. Sydney, in comparison, seems to embody a "lets race out and do everything as quickly as possible" philosophy. BA is more of a "what's the rush?" place.

No doubt, it would get annoying if you lived here for a while. However, in the here and now, where we don't need to be anywhere or do anything according to a schedule, I kind of like it.

Now, if you'll excuse me. It's time for my afternoon nap. I have a busy evening ahead of me. :)

Day 140 - A big trip from Tupiza to Salta to Buenos Aires

2009-10-07T05:10:00.000+11:00

Big. Even the word itself bulges as it exits your mouth. It may not be long, but it sounds phatter than Barry White in a sumo suit.

The city we are in now - Buenos Aires - is big. However, everything has been big for a while now; all the way down from Tupiza. Big, big, big.

Tupiza, as you'll know was like Happy Stepford. Big smiles, big sun and big red wines with more body than a BBW meeting. We weren't far from the Argentine border and the influence was showing.

I never did see the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (then again, Sebastiaan and Yolande had never seen Star Wars, so I'm least to blame), but apparently they died near Tupiza (that's Butch and Sundance, not Sebastiaan and Yolande). They tried to rob a donkey stagecoach carrying money, only it wasn't. Like, dur. Doesn't really seem worthy of a film.

Tupiza is definitely cowboy country. We took a couple of small but very feisty stock horses out for a day. Most of the time, with trail horses, you spend all your time trying to get them to go. We spent most of our time trying to get them to stop. Mine refused to travel at any speed less than a giddy prance (yes, a prance!). Its quite important not to go too fast when you're traveling along train tracks, or so I'm told.

The area around Tupiza is what I imagined Mexico would be like. It's lots of sandstone canyons, windblown arches and dry river beds. Galloping down a river bank on the back of horse with a gallop that sounds like a misfiring machine gun is awesome. More fun than a bum full of smarties.

The Argentine border took a while to get across a few days later. We waited in line for an hour to get our bags checked - missing our bus to Salta in the process - only to have the customs man wave us through without a search when we said we were Australian. Why? Can't Australians be criminals too?

Seven hours later, in the dead of night, we crash landed in Salta at the best hostel so far; Hostel Inti Huasi. It's more friendly than Peruvian trying to sell you something, only without the nasty aftertaste.

It was here, in this small colonial town that we undertook the operation formerly named "First Steak in Argentina". You see, according to everyone, Argentina has the best beef in the world. Depending on exactly who you ask, it lies somewhere between what happened to Buddha when he went into the forest, and dying of a heart attack whilst bedding with the San Fransisco 49ers cheer squad. And they're not wrong.

Juicy. Succulent. And did I mention big? This is a country with more pastureland than it knows what to do with. Argentinian beef doesn't just melt in your mouth. It tickles your tonsils with crafty fingers, whispers sweet nothings into your ears and slides down your throat like a gravy over baked potatoes. But wait! There's more! Tasty red wines of bloody brilliant quality to accompany. And all for the bargain basement price of $9.99.

No. I'm serious.

The best steak? Awesome wine? Cheap as a box full of baby chickens? I think it was at that point I decided that Argentina and I, we might have a future together.

But we weren't there yet. Onto a big arse bus we went, reclined into our sofa-sized leather armchairs and sat out the 21 hours to make it to Argentina's capital federal.

And now, here we are. And it couldn't be more different from Bolivia if it tried. BA is like Paris, inhabited by Italians, who speak Spanish.

It's all cafes and boutiques and pavement eateries and bakeries and trattorias and Peugeots and Gothic architecture and honking horns and grand parks and people talking at each other using their hands.

Tomorrow, we start looking for an apartment. However, right now, I'm hungry. Hungry to bask in the glow of a dirty, beautiful, big city again. Especially one which looks as big and beautiful as BA does in the evening light.

Might have a big steak and a big red wine too. In fact, it could be a big night.

Photos from Tupiza are here

Day 133 – Into the wilds of Bolivia

2009-10-06T11:21:00.007+11:00

It's truly surprising how many songs lend themselves nicely to llama-risation.

For example, there's Llama-Mia (sung to the tune of Abba's Mamma-mia), Llama Poo (sung to the tune of Abba's Waterloo), Walk Like a Llama (sung to the tune of The Bangles' Walk Like an Egyptian) and Llamas a la Playa (sung to the tune of Righeira's Vamos a la Playa).

And that's before we even touch on cross-species hits like You Can Call Me Alpaca (sung to the tune of Paul Simon's You Can Call Me Al).

I think the real point here is that four days in a 4WD, traveling through some of Bolivia's most beautifully rugged and isolated terrain, is a long time. And the quality of your journey really does depend on who you share it with.

Most people choose to base themselves in the town of Uyuni when exploring the Salt Flats of Uyuni- it's the obvious choice. Although it's the cheapest way of doing it, there are one or two downsides to this option.

As Max (the all-knowing barman at Oliver's Travels in La Paz) explained; the problem is, Uyuni is a shithole. And because Uyuni is a shithole, the people who live in Uyuni, such as the guides who run the tours, tend to be somewhat unmotivated, uninterested, unscrupulous, unhappy and just plain drunk. Not really the most comforting ingredients for a great four day trip into a what is, for all intents and purposes, a huge and dangerous desert wasteland.

Instead, Max suggested, better to stay on the southbound train for another six hours and get off at the small town of Tupiza. Whilst we would probably pay more, we'd end up having a much better time, both in the Tupiza itself ('not a shithole') and on the tour.

Whilst he may look like Keith Richards' little brother, there can be no doubt Max is a wise, wise man. Tupiza is to Uyuni what Cameron Diaz is to the ugly guy out of the Goonies.

It's one of those small towns where everybody seems to be terminally happy. The sun always seems to be shining. People seem to be stopping in the street and having conversations. It's like the Bolivian version of Stepford, but without the eerie feeling something strange is going on.

We spent the night at the Hotel La Torre. It's a fantastic place, which at one time would have been an amazing home for someone. Again, Stepford style, everyone there was super-friendly and ready to bleed a stone to help.

Within an hour of arriving, we'd booked our excursion into the wilderness with the hotel's tour company, La Torre Tours. The next morning, we met our travel partners. Not for the first time this trip, we found ourselves partnered with Dutch travel companions; this time Yolanda and Sebastiaan. Making up our group, was our (yet again) two incredibly friendly guide and cook, Juan Carlos and his childhood friend/ lover/ girlfriend/ wife/ ? (we never did find out), Espernaza.

So, off we set into the wild. I'd love to tell you about all the landscape we passed along the way, but the truth is it would take up pages and pages and pages. Every valley was completely different from the last, ranging from rugged spaghetti-western terrain to desolate desert landscape to green mountain tundra. The only consistent throughout was the llamas and vicuñas (wild llamas that look a but like gazelles) that could frequently be seen on the roadside It was beautiful and really brought home how diverse Bolivia really is.

Juan Carlos kept us informed along the way in kindly basic Spanish, enabling us all to add Spanish-practice to the list of tour benefits. Esperanza kept us well fed. And we did the rest.

I can't recall a four day period when I have laughed so much. The kilometers – all 1000 of them – fell to the wayside like confetti. Seb and Yolandi were awesome travel companions and I was genuinely disappointed when we had to part ways at the end.

Then, on the final day, we arrived at the Salt Flats of Uyuni. They really are quite a site. Salt, salt everywhere and not a sight of green. 12,000km2 of brilliant white nothingness, stretching as far as the eye can see, and interrupted only by small islands inhabited by 12m tall cacti.

Scaling one of the islands before breakfast that morning, Rachel pointed out that the rocks we were walking on looked a lot like coral. She was right. It is spooky to think that the whole place used to be a great sea, and the spot we were stood in was previously meters underwater.

The truth is; little is known about this place, officially the worlds' largest salt lake. However, one interesting side effect of the lack of vegetation is the lack of perspective. As a result, photographers flock to the Salar de Uyuni to take trick photos. We spent a good hour and a half mucking around and coming up with ideas for photos, only interrupting events with the occasional game of football in the empty expanses of the Flats.

We arrived back in our little town in Tupiza at around 7:30pm, after a marathon drive from Uyuni, happy, tired and sated.

Funnily enough, its one of the few times I've ever seen Rachel not ask for salt with her dinner.

You can find all the photos from the Salt Flats here

Day 129 – Hitting the wall

2009-09-30T11:23:00.007+10:00

At about 6:54pm on Sunday 13 September, Rachel and I both agreed that we had hit the wall. Rachel had a bit of a cry. I looked out at the passing, desolate landscape and felt the same wave of sadness.

Travel is an amazing thing. In the four and a half months since we left Australia's golden shores, we've slowly lowered ourselves into a bubbling pot of new experiences. From the shiny and familiar starting line that was the USA, we now find ourselves in Bolivia.

When I lived in Japan, people used to talk about Culture Shock. The term refers to the psychological and physical side effects a person can experience when immersed in a significantly different cultural environment. It's serious stuff, it can make you sick. I've also heard it best described as; being adrift on an ocean of unfamiliarity.

I'd forgotten all about it until that moment on the train. Then it all came flooding back.
The place we are in now, Bolivia, is very different from home. Great, really great, but very different. Sometimes even something as simple as buying food requires special effort. At those times, I miss the simple things that I used to take for granted. A big weekend with friends. A quiet chat over a beer down the pub. A meat pie and sauce.

We caught the bus down from to Oruro on Sunday. The plan was to head to Tupiza on the overnight train. From there, we would head into the the National Park and the Salt Flats of Uyuni for four days.

Arriving in Oruro was like having eel-infested cold custard poured down your pants. Once a rich tin mining mecca, this is a town fallen on hard times. Dusty and desolate, the whole place reeks of misery. We wandered around, tried to be friendly. However, our “holas” were met only with blank stares, or hushed mutterings. People stared at us as we walked through markets. We stuck out like a marketing manager at a MENSA meeting.

We boarded our train at 6:30pm. It looked quaint from the outside, but smelled of old socks on the inside. A tour group of elderly Germans cacophonied into the carriage, wearing enough expedition gear to climb Everest. Then the videos started.

They were bad, terrible, evil videos. Morbidly uncool 1980s Latin American pop stars in bad clothes. They sung and danced with such effort, but looked and sounded like cats being shorn. Then the train conductor told us we weren't being fed until breakfast, eight hours away. Suddenly, we were both adrift in the ocean.

For a moment, it all got too much. The wall came shooting up in front of us. Unclimbable. Impenetrable. Looming.

We talked. We talked about that fateful day so many months ago we'd decided to commit to our adventure. We talked about why we were here, what we wanted to achieve. We talked about our comfort zones and why it was important to be outside of them. We talked about where we'd been and where we were going; today, tomorrow and in the years to come.

Soon, the sun set. We sunk into our chairs and slept, the clickedy-clack of the train providing the perfect sedative.

I think holidays are about having a good time, all the time. I don't believe traveling, life even, is the same. In order to appreciate the highs, there have to be downs. Sometimes, the deeper the better. Without this, surely any journey would be nothing more than a constantly joyless trudge across even ground. A mind-numbing trip across a featureless fugue plain.

As Kurt Kobain once alluded to, there is comfort in being sad. Sometimes it's healthy to feel that you are a long way from home, well outside your comfort zone and with nothing going right. Sometimes, it's important to be exposed to sorrow. It helps you appreciate the moments of sublime glee when Mr Happy decides ride his sunshine skateboard into your life and sprinkle rainbow dust in your eyes.

Twelve hours later, Rachel and I disembarked the train and emerged into the bright sunshine of Tupiza's small town square. Things looked different. People returned our greetings with a sunny “hola” and bright smiles.

Suddenly, the wall was nowhere to be seen.

Day 128 – La Paz, Bolivia

2009-09-29T11:05:00.004+10:00

Just when you though Peru couldn't get any more farcical.

We arrived back from the Inca Trail full of joy and happiness. Sure, there had been a bit of unpleasantness when the topic of tips came up (an expectation vs reward issue), but we were on a high.

Before going on the Inca Trail, we'd bought our bus tickets to Bolivia. We were (easily) persuaded to go for a little luxury. Fully reclining seats and loads of legroom for a few extra Soles, the seemingly lovely Peruvian lady at Nuevo Continental/ CIAL bus company told us.

A week later. we turned up at the bus terminal a week later as required. We waited. The 10pm “standard” service left. We waited for our 10:20pm luxury service to be called.

At 10:10pm, we were herded into a taxi by the CIAL lady's' colleague. Our bus was apparently now leaving from another terminal. I smelled a rat, but kept my cool.

The scam became clear about 30 mins later. After being taken to the edge of town, our taxi driver flagged down the first bus that came our way. We were unceremoniously dumped on board. No fully reclining seats. No luxury service. To add insult to injury, it was the 10pm standard service we had been talked out of paying less for.

Wow. Peruvian company in blatant lies shocker (Once again; CIAL/ Neuvo Continental – take heed dear readers). Who would have thought.

I mention this story to give you some context as to how we could have been so happy to find ourselves in the capital city of Bolivia, La Paz. I introduce it to give you some insight into the chalk-and-cheese contrast between the place we were leaving, and our destination.

La Paz is a strange city. Everything about it is odd. Firstly, it's located at considerable altitude, between 3600m and 4100m. I say between, because the second strange thing about La Paz is that it is built inside a huge natural bowl in the earth. The whole place looks like it should be on Mars.

Now in Sydney (or most other cities for that matter), you tend to pay more for a view. Not so in La Paz. The higher up the side of the crater, the poorer the community tends to be. Therefore, sitting in the bottom of the whole city are the richer areas and the city centre. Whilst clinging for dear life upon the barren crater walls are all manner of ramshackle homes and businesses.

Possibly as a result of the bowl it sits in, the city is very polluted, fueled in no small way by the hordes of smoke-belching buses and minivans that race up and down the tiny, colonial streets. Crossing the road is an exercise in split-second timing.La Paz has a manic pace about it. People are absolutely everywhere. Suits on mobiles mix with little old ladies in traditional costumes. Street stalls stand next to swanky restaurants. It's like someone bought a build-your-own city kit and simply poured it onto a table. It's fabulous.

From the moment we arrived, we were engulfed in a wave of friendliness that, after the trials of Peru, was like being coated in natural yoghurt. Everyone is happy to chat. They don't want anything, they are just happy to talk. Phil, the bar manager at the Adventure Brew Hostel where we stayed, took us under his wing from Day 1. He told us where to go, what to see and introduced us along the way to all manner of denizens of this fine city.

Within the space of 9 days in Bolivia's finest, we'd seen the best her nightlife has to offer. We ate great meals at great restaurants. We checked out the weird and weirder still at the Witches Market (Llama foetus anyone?). I played futsal against the hostel's security guards team at altitude (which, for the record, hurts like hell). And then, on the Friday, we rode the World's Most Dangerous Road.

I won't go into the details of what the World's Most Dangerous Road is exactly – I'll leave that to the very capable people at B-Side, with whom we rode. I'll simply say this. The experience of racing downhill for 63km on that road, on the back of a $2,500 mountain bike, is awesome. Do it.

I'd recommend La Paz to anyone who asks. However, I was happy to leave. It's a crazy, unique, buzzy, brilliant city, but it's not a place to relax. Anyone can simply blend in, do your thing and go about your business undisturbed. However, one thing La Paz doesn't offer a high standard of living. It takes ages to go places; get things done. The pollution and altitude make you feel like you are constantly slightly fluey. Simply, life in La Paz isn't easy.

But here's the icing on the cake. The cherry on top that brought home for me why we enjoyed being in La Paz so very much. Why we both reckon Bolivia and Bolivians rock.

Upon going to the bus station to buy our ticket to head south, we asked the lady behind the counter about the bus we'd be traveling on. Her response?

“It's comfortable enough, but the toilets won't work. They never work”

And you know what? Once the truth be told, we didn't really mind.

La Paz photos can be sampled here

Day 115 – The Inca Trail and Machu Pichu

2009-09-27T01:23:00.003+10:00

It's a bit hard to know what to write about the Inca Trail. It feels a bit like writing about Lindsey Lohan's sex life; everyone seems to know quite a bit already.

In the interests of avoiding the same old, cliched trustafarian travelogue descriptions (“Machu Pichu is a spiritual experience blah blah blah”), I'll get to the point.

It was harder than I thought. Day 1 of the trail is a gentle toddle along a river before a slightly more challenging hour and a half uphill. Nothing too taxing. Then comes Day 2.

Day 2, quite frankly, is a bitch. It's the bastard son of a swift kick in the nuts and finding poo in your sundae. Rachel and I had make the decision to carry our own equipment, rather than give it to the porters (more on them later). Whilst I don't regret it in hindsight, at the time it did not seem like a great decision.

Day 2 sees you trudge your way (very) slowly up from about 3100m altitude to 4200m. Then, once you reach the top, you look down and realise that you have to walk down another 700m along some of the most rocky and uneven path I've ever seen.

Then, after lunch, it's up the other side of another mountain of giddying heights before yet another bone shattering descent to camp for an early night in bed.

After that, Day 3, whilst having a rather charming 1km vertical descent down the worlds' longest staircase, is a bit of a walk in the park. Whilst, Day 4 is little more than an early-morning stroll up a mountain to the final location that this whole bloody walk in the countryside is about.

In all honesty, it's not a physically taxing proposition. The two middle-aged Australian gents who we shared a group with were, by their own admission, not fitness nuts. They completed it in good time. It's tough, but at the end of the day it's one of those things that. if you get it in your mind you're going to do, you will end up doing.

The other thing that keeps you going is the porters.

When a good part of your day is spent standing to one side on the track, to let men carrying half their bodyweight in camping equipment run ahead of you to set up camp, it's kind of hard to claim the trail is in the “too hard” basket.

The porters are supermen. Their ability to lug gear up inclines most of us would struggle unladen is astounding. I genuinely felt embarrassed walking into camp two hours behind them and having them clap us. Amazing.

So, as you can imagine, when we arrived at the Sun Gate to Machu Pichu on the morning of Day 4, we were well rested, well fed and well educated on the Inca Empire. And we were greeted by....cloud.

Luckily, it didn't last long. We dropped down a few hundred meters to lay eyes on the picture postcard view the world knows. Beautifully set against the mountains in the background and teeming with people.

I still find it strange to this day that despite walking four days to arrive at the crown in the jewel of Peru's grand historical past, people on tour buses were allowed to enter the site a good hour before us. Call me a meritocrat, but it seems topsy-turvy.

So, what's it like? Well, it's beautiful. A lot of effort has gone into restoring the site, and it shows. Sure, it's an incredibly touristy place, complete with $5 cans of Coke. However, standing on the edge of the highest temple looking down into the valley below is a giddy feeling, and you can't take that away.

But, you know what? It's not the site itself that amazes. Sure, the brickwork is good, but to my layman eyes it doesn't look any more impressive than European castles of the same era, The societal structure and agricultural achievements seem amazing, but then again, think of India or China.

What really blew me away about Machu Pichu and the Incas was; where they built their empire. This is a land of impossibly high mountains, deep crevice-like valleys and inclines so steep it makes you wonder if you'd ever stop falling. This is a landscape that most civilizations would not even consider exploring. The Incas made this their domain and built an empire, which at it's height, had more people in it than the whole of Europe.

The thing is; I think the only reason I came to appreciate it is because we walked four days to get there. We experienced first hand how hard it must have been to travel between cities. How hard it must have been to transport food and raw materials (remembering the Incas did not have horses). We saw other sites along the way, each with their own exacting purpose and character. It all provided essential parts to a story that only became complete at the grand finale.

Sat there on the top of Old Mountain, watching the throngs pour off their buses, I came to this conclusion. For all the beauty of Machu Pichu, it's the walk along the Inca Trail itself that was most worthwhile.

You can have a squizz at all the Inca Trail photos by clicking here

Stevie Aird is coming to town!

2009-09-24T01:54:00.024+10:00

Ladies and gentlemen; citizens of Buenos Aires.

It is my great pleasure to announce the imminent arrival of Mr Stephen Aird to your fine, fair and previously untainted city.

Stephen is a man who needs little introduction. As you will be no doubt be aware, He is a legend in his own lifetime. He is a man of awesome stature in numerous fields, including erotic fiction, naked all-in Turkish wrestling and, of course, horse husbandry. The fact that He is so modest in refusing to talk about these, or His collection of Swedish penis pumps, merely adds to his allure. Men want to be Him, women want to be with Him.

In little over a week, He will be here, in this very country. However, the very concept of Stephen Aird should not be taken lightly. Prepare for the best, prepare for the worst.

I make no apologies in saying; this could get messy. This is a man who thinks nothing of dousing Himself in honey and throwing Himself to the lesbians. This is a man who can go out at night wearing a pink t-shirt and novelty oversize sunglasses and still turn up for work next day morning with His head held high. If He were a mammoth, they would not be extinct.

I will admit it to you, fellow citizens; I invited Him. Further, I admit to you; He is my friend. I like His style! Yes, it will probably end it tears. There may be some casualties. Hell, it may even be worse than we could possibly imagine. However, bear this is mind.

One day in the distant future, when your hair is grey and your eyes are dim. When Spurs have won the Premiership, England have won the world cup and Scotland have qualified. When cricket is no more and Ricky Ponting is just a distant, slightly horrid memory. When your children's children sit at your knees and beg you to tell them a story, you will smile and quietly tell them where you were when Stephen Aird came to Buenos Aires.

God save us all.

Day 111 - Lima, Huacachina and Cash Cow (Cusco), Peru

2009-09-20T03:45:00.011+10:00

I like Peru. It's a beautiful place. However, in the spirit of not sugar-coating my words; it's a large proportion of the locals I'm having problem with.

We arrived in Lima the evening of the 10 August. A couple of nights staying near the airport to organise things, and we headed to the chic coastal suburb of Miraflores. It was there the trouble slowly began.

Peru seems to be rather packed in August. Trying to find a double room in Miraflores was a bit like trying to find an adult female with a good word to say about Posh Spice. However, we managed to find one which came slightly recommended.

Alas, on arriving at the pre-booked hotel, we were told that despite accepting our deposit, they were full. We were to be transferred to a completely different building on the other side of town. Which happened to be someone's house. Complete with very, very smelly dog. And despite being $10 cheaper, we were expected to pay the same rate (which obviously wasn't ever going to happen).

Still, you make best of a situation. Lima is a modern, mildly chic and very large city which doesn't really look too different to any other similarly-sized city on the planet. It does however have some top places to eat.

Rach and I made a decision to treat ourselves to a fancy meal. We'd been given a recommendation from Ian's (see LA entry) cousin, Karen. She gave one special piece of advice; don't have more than two Pisco Sours.

So, the wife and I donned our fanciest livery and made our way to La Mar Cebicheria for a long, boozy lunch. We started with a Pisco Sour at the bar each. A warm buzz enveloped the both of us. We were led to our table.

With the help of our waiter, beautiful examples of Peruvian fare were soon being consumed. Yummy. A bottle of white wine soon disappeared. Rachel, enjoying her first taste of the high life in three months, ordered another. More food turned up. The wine did one. The restaurant began to take on a fuzzy quality.

By the end of the meal, it would be an understatement to say we were in good form.

“Another Pisco Sour to round things off?” suggested Rachel.

“Why the hell not”, agreed Stewart.

“Ummm, I theenk eeet would be dangeroos to have otra cocktail, senora”, proferred our waiter.

We considered his advice, weighed up the pros and cons. We compromised with a Pisco Sour for Stu, and a Pisco Sweet for Rachel.

In the end he was right. The rest of the afternoon was spent snoozing it all off back at the “hotel”. I'm glad to report that although Rachel had the hangover from hell next day and swore off Pisco Sours for life (which lasted about 48 hours), I was right as rain.

Ironically, the drunken ride back from the restaurant was the only time in Lima a taxi driver didn't try to rip us off.

Nice as Lima was, I believe it's best not to hang around in big cities too long. They tend to all be rather similar (with some notable exceptions), and they drain your finances faster than an 18 year old mistress. Rachel recommended we visit a “desert oasis” 5 hours south, called Huacachina.

We bid goodbye to the “hotel” staff and made our way to the bus station. There we discovered that civil strife in Pisco meant buses were only going halfway to where we needed to be. Still, it's better to be on the way to somewhere than standing still. So, we boarded a bus anyway in the hope the situation would improve en route. Luckily it did, we carried on straight through and arrived well after dark.

In the morning, we saw first-hand why Huacahina is so recommended. I've never been anywhere like it. It's about ten minutes drive from the town of Ica, has a population of around 115 and is surrounded on two sides by 300ft tall sand dunes - and on all the sides by desert.

Now, I'm not talking mild, scrubby, pseudo-desert either. I'm talking Laurence-of-Arabia, Bedouin traders, sands of the Nile, cartoon bloke-in-a-loin-cloth-crawling-along-for-days desert. In other words; Proper desert.

We ate lunch at a different restaurant that the taxi driver had recommended the night before, and discovered that it was about 50% cheaper and 100 times better. Then we booked onto a dune buggy ride with a man called Chupon.

Chupon had been recommended to us by a guy called Jon Green at Huacachina.com. Jon had assured us that Chupon was the craziest dune buggy driver in town, and would give us a ride to remember. He wasn't bloody wrong.

Chupon treated us to a journey into the sandy wastes that can only be described as a freestyle rollercoaster ride. We hurtled down giant dunes and up the other side, occasionally leaving the ground as we came over the crest, before hurtling down again at what seemed like near-vertical angles. Occasionally, we took a moments' breather to sand-board down the very same giant dunes on our bellies, achieving break-neck speeds. In a phrase; it were brilliant.

A couple of days of sunbathing and it was time to head to Cusco. We boarded an overnight bus (which turned up quite late), ate our now-cold food and headed to Cusco, arriving only five hours late. And this was supposed to be the most-punctual service in the country.

Upon arriving, we resisted the obligatory attempt by a taxi driver to rip us off, before settling into our hostel which, despite advertising to the contrary, had no consistently-hot water.

Heading into town, we soon discovered why Cusco is so popular. It's beautiful. However, it also has a major PR problem.

Imagine meeting the girl of your dreams. She's beautiful. Tall. She has a face that simply sparkles and she makes you feel at home. However, imagine you lean in close and suddenly realise that her hair is infested with lice. Well, that's Cusco/ Cash Cow.

The simple fact as far as I can see, is the vast majority of people in Cusco are interested in one thing; your money. They wish to separate you from it. To do so, they will promise the earth. Paint shiny, sparkling pictures about what you will experience. Make you feel like you are in the Abode of the Gods and the world is your lobster.

Of course, once said money and you are separated, you'll soon discover that it was all a pack of lies. That the very same people have no intention of doing anything but the very minimum. That they will cut any corners possible – for example, turning off hotel electricity to save money (“Perdon. No funciona ahora. Talvez, manana?”) – in order to maximise profit.

It's been exhausting, to be honest. Its not a situation I particularly enjoy; not being able to trust people. But, the simple observable facts from my perspective suggest that outright lying, in morality terms, is widely accepted here.

For example; I'd love to tell you about the magnificent jungle tour we went on to El Manu for four days. I'd love to tell you that it was well organised, professionally run and we saw all the wildlife we were told we would see. I'd love to tell you it was all it was promised to be. But I can't.

The reality is; that the tour Manu Adventures (steer clear – you have been warned) sold us had to be postponed for a day because the bus that turned up to collect us two and half hours late wasn't fit for human habitation, let alone a 12 hour trip into the jungle. That it wasn't a maximum of 8 people, as we'd been told, but instead 23. That the lodges we stayed in were dirty and smelly and generally in a state of serious disrepair. That although the owners said the hot water and electricity had only been out-of service for two days, other guests established that it had been far longer. That we didn't see anything except for a bunch of birds (which our guide seemed to love more than anyone). That at one point he tried to convince us that the oinking sound coming from the nesting cormorants 30 metres up a tree was, in fact, wild pigs.

Then, upon arriving back in Cusco, I discovered that an employee at an Internet cafe we had used, had decided to use our Skype account to phone her friends in Uruguay. By the time we managed to speak to the Tourist Police, the very same girls' boss had doctored the shops' time logs, and lied outright to the police to cover the crime.

Which brings me back to my opening line. Peru is a beautiful place, very different from Central America. I should be, by rights, gushing about the place and recommending it to all and sundry.

But I'm not. And I have to be honest why. I'm not because it's too tiring having to deal with the shit that so many of the locals insist upon dishing out. The taxi drivers trying to rip you off. The street peddlars following you up the street with a guilt trip, trying to sell you all sorts of crap so “I can eet my deener”. The dual pricing. The pickpockets constantly scoping you out as you walk the street. The massage girls who simply won't take no for an answer. The shoddy tour companies. The constant lies.

I don't want to end on a down note, so I won't. So far, we have been lucky with altitude sickness, although I've had my share of “food acclimatisation”. We've yet again met some great people, and been lucky enough to meet up with Vicky and Lee (see Utila) again. We are still having a lot of fun and enjoying the new experiences every day brings. We head to the Inca Trail on Saturday. Life's not all bad.

If only someone could make some of the people here understand the damage they are doing to themselves, and to beautiful Peru.

Photos from Lima, Huacachina and El Manu are here.

Whatever you do, steer cleer of Manu Adventures

Central America: the Epilogue

2009-08-12T12:11:00.014+10:00

Perdón. Hay algo extraño en mi bolsa que debe saber sobre. Es un regalo. Es una cabeza humana.

Before you read any further - assuming you don't speak Spanish - pop that into Google Translator. I doubt you´ll find it in a Spanish text book. I certainly didn't rote learn it anywhere.

Nonetheless, I thought it prudent to let the Guatemalan customs official know exactly what she would see in her little X-ray machine before it went through. Rachel pissed herself laughing. Mort, my new pet skull (photo to come), smiled his pearly smile, as per usual.

In the end, the customs official batted not an eyelid. Instead, she confiscated Rachels hand sanitizer; didn't even open my bag. Apparently, carrying human skulls in carry-on luggage is just fine. Go figure.

So, Central America. Done. Dusted. Stamped, catalogued and placed into the Indiana Jones warehouse that is human memory. How do you sum it up? This was the question flirting between the the newly-pierced Rachel and I as we sat in our hotel room in Guatemala City, the night before our flight to Peru, South America.

Central America is like a long night at a cocktail bar. The sheer number of flavours is bewildering, no two particularly similar. Each country - nay, each region - has its' own very unique flavour. Each is a different kind of drunk. Three months on, as we stumble out, intoxicated, it's hard to know where the time has gone. Is it closing time already? One more tune?

Mexico was a bewildering surprise. From the overplayed danger of Mexico City to the quaintness of Oaxaca, it went against everything we'd ever read, seen or heard about the country. Mexico gets a bad rap. It´s an incredible place. Amazing food. Oh, and nobody parties like a Mexican.

The spectre of the swine flu "epidemic" made it even more special. Some days, we would be the only Caucasian faces we'd see. Many a conversation were had about the timing of the media frenzy around swine flu; the economic benefits of having the worlds' most ailing economy keeping all its' citizens at home, spending money in the USA rather than abroad.

Me, I love conspiracy theories. I'll leave you to judge the merit of that one.

Then came Cancun, Playa del Carmen and Tulum. Enjoyable as these Caribbean destinations were, the odour of bland brand Global Tourism hangs over them like a fug. One of my new pet hates has to be seeing prices for things listed in a currency not native to a country (ie. $US instead of Mexican Pesos). Grrr.

Thing is; how can you rightfully stop people from getting maximum value for their skills and services? If the holidaying majority, with only two weeks relaxation to pack in, want to pay obscene money for a sanitized, safe and fake experience - the kind they could receive in any tourist mecca from here to Bombay - then opposition is folly. I can't understand it though. I'm just not the kind of person who wants bacon and eggs for breakfast, AFL on the telly or a Burger King on every corner when I'm miles from home. Each to their own.

Belize on the other hand was a total surprise. Firstly, English. Everyone speaks it! Who would have thought? Secondly, expensive. No doubt related to the fact that the currency is locked into the $US to the tune of 2:1.

Enjoyable though. We never did make it to Caye Caulker, though others told of an amazing little Caribbean island akin to paradise. San Ignacio was very cool, though insanely hot. In the search for global business opportunities, it shone out as a place I could stay for a bit. With the ATM cave but a stones throw away, it could do with a seriously well-organised hostel operation.

Leaving Belize, we both believed that the trip to Honduras would take but a few days. The reality - influenced mainly by the military coup - was a nine day hiatus through the eastern side of Guatemala. Flores was cute. Tikal breathtaking. Our swamp in Rio Dulce was amusing. Livingston was a flea-infested dump, with La Casa de la Iguana hostel offering a solitary shining light. That part of the trip offered no clue to the brilliance of our second trip to Guatemala.

Then Honduras. Utila. The Bay Islands. What a little island. A place of such contradictions. Cheap, cheap diving with, when compared to places like Australia and Thailand, so very little to actually see under the water. Sandflies that eat you alive, but water so warm taking a bath means getting colder. Add to the mix a 12pm curfew every bloody night curtailing (but not stopping!) shenanigans in their tracks. Not even the chance to practice Spanish. Every bugger speaks English, in some form or another.

Still, we well loved every minute of it. We got qualified as Advanced Adventurer, then Stress & Rescue divers for starters. Meanwhile, island life is something else. Utila is another place in this beautiful world I could so very easily live, albeit for two or three months a year at most. It's a place where a lot of people get caught.

However, of all the places in Central America, my heart was captured most by Guatemala. Busing our way up toward Guatemala City and Antigua, it first became apparent how beautiful the country was. Lush, green mountains plunging up and down into the distance. Guatemala is an unspoilt paradise. Is it coincidence that it's also one of the poorest countries in the world?

Really, it doesn't matter what I write here about Guatemala. Neither words nor photos will do it justice. I could whittle on forever about the merits of the country. We both loved it. It's a magical place that would be very very easy to live in.

But the real thing is; it's not the landscape, or the food, or the culture that makes these place so amazing. I'm going to sound like Katrina Rowntree with nothing better say on this one, but it's the local people that make Central America so amazing.

Theirs seems like a very, very different world to ours. They may not have the the airconditioned homes, big cars, designer clothes and cutting-edge technology that counts for the norm in the West, but they do seem to have a full, happy and rich lives. They seem to live in a simpler world, and they seem more connected to their own human communities.

It makes me wonder about life back in Oz sometimes. How healthy is our "Western" lifestyle? Have we been lulled a little onto a false quest, heading for a goal we don't really know is good for us, ending in a destination which might just be a little foolish?

I know how that must sound to you reading this back home. I´d probably think the same if I were in your shoes, bloody hippy talk. I don´t particularly count myself as an anti-capitalist or anything like that. However, this is the question that Central America has stirred up in me. Read into that whatever you will.

It's too heavy note to end on. So I think I should reminisce on the people we've met. Viktor the mad Swede in Mexico City, and the energizer bunny that is Gerraldo. Darcy, an Irish lass without compare. Matt, and his American tourist suit. Bryce and Laura in San Ignacio and, later, Rio Dulce - an American couple on a two-person mission to improve the worldwide image on the US of A. Crazy Thea in Flores and her Irish insultee, Joe. Sophia and her crew, who so kindly allowed Froukje, Bryce and I to crash their party. English Anna, bitten to hell but still standing and ready for more. Vicki and Lee in Utila; Vicki being the only divemaster to formerly be scared of water. Matt and his legendary phallus. Pru and Alice and Tex/Kate and Damo. Danish Anna and all who sail upon her. Pedro and Dean and even Meme and all that he stood for. We salute you all. Through thicker and thinner. Through sober and schozzled. We salute the conversations, the capers and even the codshit. May we meet again, soon. God speed and good luck.

This wasn't the end. It wasn't even the beginning of the end. It's the end of the beginning. Next: Peru. Bolivia. Argentina. Brazil. Machu Pichu. La Paz. Mendoza. Iguazu. Stevie and Jenni. Tom and (hopefully) Irenne. Maybe even Esther?

Here we come. Ready or not.

Day 93 - A big fat Lake (Atitlan) in the sky

2009-08-12T06:47:00.026+10:00

There are things that are quite nice to look at. Like a gaggle of playful puppies, an icy cold, frothy beer or a sparkling pool on a hot day.

Then, there are things that grab you by the eyeballs and scream, Kath and Kim vs Muriel's Wedding style "Look at moi, LOOK AT MOI, Oi'm beautiful!" Things like this, or this, or - at a stretch - even this.

Then there are things that make you feel like someone has kicked you in the stomach, stolen your breath, yet delivered a sight that changes your perception of beautiful forever.

Let's get it out of the way early. Lake Atitlan is very beautiful. In a very awesome way. It's virtually impossible to catch it from a bad angle. It doesn't look scruffy first thing in the morning, all misty and millpond flat. Nor does it suck during the day, when the sun glistens off the swell like P-Diddy entering a nightclub. And at night, it provides a silhouetted reminder of the awesome power that surrounds you, in the form of three fat volcanoes; Atitlan, Toliman and San Pedro.

We climbed the latter, named after the town that nestles at it's foot. For the record, it's a bitch of a climb and a lot higher at the top (3,000m) than it looks from the bottom. You see, the obvious but easily overlooked (by me anyway) thing about volcanoes is they get steeper the further up you go. Plus, above 2,500m the thin air gives you the respiratory system of a 95 year old man. I'm glad I did it once. I truly believe only a masochist would do it twice. Still, it was good practice for Machu Pichu in three weeks time.

The other little known fact about Atitlan (other than it's awesome volcanic past, which I'm not going to bore you with - if you're interested you can read about it here) is that (according to me) it sits in the middle of a huge gravity anti-well. What is a gravity anti-well I hear you ask? et me explain.

As we all know, a clever chap called Einstein devised a theory called General Relativity. One of the attributes of this theory is that gravity affects time. It slows it down. A watch at sea level will run slower than an identical one atop Everest, where gravity is weaker (because it's further away from the massive weight of the earths' core). Basically, the stronger the gravity, the slower time supposedly moves. Physics lesson over.

Well, although you wouldn't know it from walking about, Atitlan has much less gravity than everywhere else on the planet. Time moves very fast here. Very fast indeed. Three hours of Spanish lessons a day, a couple of meals and a few drinks in a bar or two at night and...BOOM!...next thing you know, two weeks have whizzed by like a Robin Williams monologue.

In trying to work out how it happened, you look down at your hands. You're both wearing beautifully hand-crafted rings that you kinda recall buying from a dreadlocked Argentinian artisan in San Pedro. You realise that you can now speak pretty decent Spanish. There's an ornamental skull packed in paper in your backpack (you both know his name is Mort). You've been offered a job working at an awesome restaurant called D'Noz. You know the names and histories of a whole bunch of very cool people with names like Danish Anna, Matt, Henry, Chloe, Jake, Pedro, Alex and Dean. Rachel has a hole in her nose filled with a small, sparkly pin. There are vague and shameful memories of being dressed in drag one night at a place called La Iguana Perdida.

Not to mention the fact you've managed to bump into about seven people you've met at other places along the way. Why-hullo-there Thea from Flores! Oi Pru and Alice from Utila! G'day Tex and Damo, also from Utila! 'Sup Canadian chick from Oaxaca whose name I should know but too much time has passed for me to ask what it is!

Yeh, yeh, I know everyone is traveling similar routes and it's inevitable. But the "Wow, what a small world" moment is a buzz nonetheless.

I really liked Atitlan. It's the kind of place that I can see myself living. It's the kind of place I could see myself bringing children to live for a year or two.

I'd do it to teach them more than they can learn from just being at school. That outside of our econo-clyptic Western World, where "rich" and "wealthy" are assumed to be interchangeable, there is another world. A place where life is simpler. Where everyone always stops to say hi. Where are great meal costs $5. Where you can swim in the lake without worrying about mercury levels. A place where kids walk home from school on their own.

The Atitlan we experienced probably won't be there in ten years. Guatemala is a poor country and her people - so very friendly, so very open - deserve much more than their hard work currently receives. I guess that's a part of what makes Atitlan so wonderful too. It's a place where two communities - foreigners and locals - exist in a mutually beneficial, symbiotic relationship to improve everyone's lot, whilst protecting the beauty that exists. Can you say the same thing about Cancun? Ibiza? The Great Barrier Reef?

Oh, we also went to Antigua too. It's the city equivalent of Heather Graham. It's really nice to look at, but there doesn't seem to be a whole lot going on.

I'd also be lying if I said that spending time with so many cool people, in a great place, around a beautiful body of water didn't make me a little homesick...

Pics from Atitlan and Antigua are here...

Day 70 Utila, Honduras

2009-07-30T08:32:00.018+10:00

My name is Stewart. I am an Emergency Responder. May I be of assistance?

Jon, our Rescue Diving Instructor, says that's what you say when find someone choking, panicking, bleeding, screaming, unconscious or just simply not breathing. But only after phoning the Emergency Services. And donning a pair of rubber gloves.

Sound silly to you? If so, I'm happy to hear I'm not alone. I just can't bring myself to say it. It seems sooo George Orwells' 1984 and New-speak. You turn up, see person on the floor turning blue and then... Hi! Have a nice day! Would you like fries with that?

Litigation-avoiding daft phrases aside, I'm happy to report that being in Utila has been rather squiffy (smiley face, smiley face).

The 2 or 3 of you reading this blog (God bless your charitable hearts!) will know we arrived in Utila in the dead of night, during a military coup. If not for the kindness of a lady called Louisa, we would have been spending the night sleeping on a dock.

The following morning brought a new day, and a new place to explore. Which - once we had visited the ATM, got our passports stamped and got some brekky - took, in all truth, about thirty minutes.

The island of Utila is not big. The whole landmass is only 14km long. It's sole main street is about 2km long, sandwiched (and I do mean sandwiched) between the sea on one side and a mangrove lagoon on the other. You can walk it in about twenty minutes.

When I say street, I should clarify. I mean single-lane concrete path. Up and down this passageway parade all manner of tourists, locals, tuk-tuks, scooters, trail bikes, quads, rust-masses with wheels and the occasional golf cart. On either side, salt-faded wooden shacks line the place, whilst sun-ripened locals cook, drink and bellow pidgin English at each other, surrounded by hordes of the happiest, healthiest and friendliest dogs known to man. It's lively.

Originally, the Bay Islands (of which Utila is one) were the property of the British Empire. They used them as a launching point for privateering, which is basically posh pirating. They'd drop the Union Jack, sneak up on the Spanish coming back from the new world and bally-well nab their gold for Mother England. Tally ho, hoo-ray and all that tosh! Wot wot.

Eventually, via a diplomatic process I don't fully comprehend, the British agreed to cede control of the islands to the Spanish, in exchange for Belize.

This has left Utila with an interesting ethnic background. The locals are a mixture of native Central Americans, Spaniards, Garifuna (descendants of Carib, Arawak and African people) and, oddest of all, the descendents of the Scottish and Irish families given the opportunity to settle the island all those years ago. I tell you, there is nothing stranger than hearing someone who clearly looks Celtic let rip with an accent that is 100% Caribbean. It's a spin-out.

There are pretty much only two reasons anyone really comes to Utila. To scuba dive, and to party. The island is in effect the worlds' largest liveaboard, as well as being cheaper than Icelandic Government bonds.

There are a something like twenty dive shops on the island. We chose Utila Water Sports. They looked good and could qualify us as Advanced Adventure divers under the SSI training qualification. In all truth all the dive shops are much of much, although there are a couple whose encouragement of partying has seem more than a few clients head for the decompression chamber more often than average.

We also bagged ourself a cool little apartment for a fortnight from a lovely American lady called Maggie. With all the mod cons - kitchen, fridge, TV, aircon, mango tree on the doorstep - it would provide a lovely little oasis of calm after a hard days' diving. Oooooo yeh.

Aaaand off we went. In between dives, we passed hours outside the dive shop chugging beers in the company of some very cool people, two lazy dogs and one psychopathic parrot. Occasionally, we'd take the party outward on onward to one of the many small bars on the island. Be it one of the wharf bars down on the water like Coco Loco (eighties nights and serious partying) or Babalu (open-air aquarium and checkers games)', or something further away from the water like Treetanic (crazy hotel built by complete tripper for tree-house partying) or Bar in the Bush (bar, amazingly enough, situated in the bush with more fights than an Irish wedding).

Alas, with the coup still in force and the President in exile doing the diplomatic equivalent of knock and run (Oh look! I'm back in Honduras! Oh no! I've stepped back across the border again! Ner ner), the only downside to this sprightly little schedule was the 12pm curfew.

Still, no matter. The benefit of Utila's diving scene is it gives everyone a focus; something everyone needs to get up for. It also helps you forge friendships quickly. We met some very cool people, meaning curfew time simply meant changing venues to someone's home, followed by a late-night dash home, avoiding the police patrol (although, in honesty, I'm not sure they were anywhere but home in bed).

So, the first two weeks rolled along nicely. We got to know Vicki and Lee very well indeed. They told us how they had arrived in Utila for a short holiday, completely scared of water, before staying four months to become Dive Masters. We enjoyed the company of Kiwi lad Terry and his Dutch girlfriend Sebine (from Rachels' Dads' home town of Nijmegen no less!). We warmed to the shops' silent but strong Swiss superman, Ramun, and his 70m+ depth diving feats. The company of the aussiest of Aussie brothers Shane and Craig was similarly a damned pleasant way to waste an hour or four over a Baleada (awesome food!) and a rum.

Then, one balmy morning, Rachel proposed what had been bouncing around her visually-pleasant bonce for a week or so. "Let's become Rescue Divers," proposed the raven-haired beauty.

"Great idea," I responded. After all, if one doesn't come back from life-changing year long travels with a whole bunch of brand new "mad" skills, well, it's just not cricket, is it?

The thing is; becoming a Rescue Diver ain't easy. Especially when your instructor, Jon, takes great pride in his course. Great pride in the sense that rather than teaching you the course one way, or the other way; instead he teaches you everything you could possibly need to know. His approach was like teaching someone to bake a cake by first beginning with the molecular composition of flour.

It was tough. We studied long hours. We spent hours at sea pulling "unconscious" divers up from the depths, or trying to get someone onto boat against current. Rachel accidentally locked smackers with Terry once whilst simulating CPR on the boat. (Note: real corpses don't piss themselves laughing, Terry).

In the end, we did it. Sixteen days, seventeen dives, countless beers and more baleadas than you can fit in a Mini cooper, we boarded the Utila Princess (don't be fooled by the name. It's a box on a boat) happy in the knowledge that if we ever see someone drowning, Rachel will most likely end up snogging them.

It's almost worth it...

For all dem photo fer Utila, click here, mon

Day 63 - Livingston (Guatemala) to Utila (Honduras) in a pea green boat

2009-07-12T00:44:00.012+10:00

“The best laid schemes of mice and men/ Go often askew,” wrote Scots poet Robert Burns in 1785 (or “Gang aft agley” for the purist Scots out there). He may not have been talking about traveling, but in this case the wisdom fits perfectly

You see, the good thing about having a plan, is having the option of abandoning it at a moments' notice. Because (as Universal Truth #2 will attest to), the best adventures are usually borne of last-minute decisions.

And so came about the sequence of events that led to us being sat in the middle of the Caribbean Ocean, paying passengers on the 35ft yacht of a rather silent and very strange Frenchman.

Everything big begins small (see the post “Feather, Brick, Truck”). This latest adventure began quite innocuously, in a motel room in the Mexican border town of Chetumal.

The latest plan was to head to the Belizean island of Caye Caulker for some scuba diving. Our original route, via Honduras, had been abandoned due to the distance and time needed to get there. You simply can't do everything in two months now, can you? Instead, we would take the opportunity to take more time soaking up the beauty of Southern Guatemala.

That was until we walked home from dinner and had a conversation that went something like this;

Stewart: Right. Up early tomorrow. Head for the border, then we can get a fast boat direct from Corozal to Caye Caulker. We should be there by lunch.
Rachel: Great. It's a shame we're missing Honduras though. The diving is sooo cheap there.
Stewart: Yeh. I'm gutted to miss out on the Crystal Maiden in San Ignacio too.
Rachel: Me too. Bummer, eh?
Stewart: Maybe we should go there after all?
Rachel: Maybe we should.
Stewart: Settled then! Let's go to Honduras via San Ignacio!

And there you have it. Proof that sometimes the right decision is the one that is easiest to make.

That's not to say it's always the easiest to do though...

Two days after embarking on our spontaneous little detour, a friendly New Yorker called Norm informed us of the fact that Honduras had just undergone a military coup. The borders were closed indefinitely. Still, something told us we should keep going.

In Rio Dulce, three days later, we heard about a travel company that offered a sailboat service direct from Guatemala to the Bay Islands. But first we needed to take a two hour ride up the river to the coast, to a small town called Livingston.

Livingston is only accessible by small boat. The journey involves crossing Guatemala's second largest lake, Lago de Isabel, before traveling through a series of gorges up to 100m tall. According to the Rough Guide to Central America, the town “offers a unique fusion of Guatemalan and Caribbean culture in which marimba mixes with Marley”.

Personally, I didn't see it. If garbage everywhere, stray dogs following you home and “sandflies” that eat you alive are your idea of Caribbean culture, then I stand corrected. Despite enjoying two days at a very lively hostel (Casa de la Iguana) run by an amicable, former stripper called Rusty, we were pretty much ready to high-tail it out of there asap.

The news from Honduras was good. The borders were open and, despite the president still being in exile, we were told that passage was possible. With the intention of by-passing the mainland, the trouble and numerous roadblocks, five of us met with the fabled Capitan Eric to negotiate passage.

We'd met Josh and Te when they checked into our swamp in Rio Dulce. Former partners from the US, they'd decided that breaking up shouldn't stand in the way of the round the world trip they'd planned. Brave people. Elyse, a blond beach chick from Manly, was doing a fine job of spreading the world reputation of Aussie chicks for being bubbly-as-champagne, willing to call-a-spade-a-spade and up for anything.

Which is more than can be said for Le Capitan. Monosyllabic at best, we were truly in the presence of someone accustomed to spending days alone at sea. At first I assumed his lack of conversation was due to the language barrier. However, he proved to be equally uninterested in small talk in both French and Spanish. He seemed to prefer chain-smoking Marlboro Lights, downing rum like water and fasting (we never saw him eat the entire time we were in his company). Still, we had a boat and in two short days we'd be happily tucking into fresh lobster and planning all manner of dive trips.

Alas, sailing the Caribbean wasn't quite the pleasure trip you'd imagine. Eric's boat was more functional than fabulous, and the trade winds and currents in this part of the world travel from East to West. That left us traveling against the tide. And the swell. Poor Rachel, Te and particularly Josh spent most of the first day with their heads over the side, feeding the fish.

Another day sailing against the wind (less Te and Josh who'd decided that another day of seasickness wasn't for them, and taken a bus), watching Le Capitan plough his way through cigarettes and rum, and we'd arrived.

Alas, we'd arrived five hours late, at 1am rather than 7pm. The military-imposed curfew of 11pm meant the streets were deserted. It had been two days since we had showered. We were covered in salt and sun cream. We smelled bad and felt worse. Sleeping on the dock (or, god forbid, another night in Le Capitan's boat) wasn't doing it for us.

In these situations you really do rely on fate, and the kindness of strangers. An hour spent ducking between closed hotels and I was lucky enough to find the only hotelier on the island still awake. Thirty minutes later, showered and clean, we were all sound asleep in our beds.

Don't you love it when a plan comes together?

For all the pictures from Livingston and our journey to paradise, click here

Day 56 - Deep in the swamps of Rio Dulce

2009-07-06T10:15:00.022+10:00

We're deep in the jungle now. Insects I have never seen before, big insects, are everywhere. Hidden birds let rip with weird and wonderful squeaks and warbles, whilst the cicadas never stop. The smell of swamp and mangroves is all around, but not as offensive as you would think. I turn to Rachel and tell her it reminds me of the computer game, The Secret of Monkey Island. She laughs and agrees. We sing the theme tune, talk about geeky things for a bit and laugh some more.

It's fun being in a swamp. Our cabin is made of wood planks and has netting for windows. Boardwalks run between all the buildings. At night, they light candles and oil lamps, giving it all a middle-of-nowhere, voodoo feel. I feel like I am holed-up in a secret pirate lair. Any minute now, I expect Johnny Depp to walk into the bar in mascara and order rum.

After crossing the border into Guatemala, we spent two nights in Flores. It's a cobbledy little island-town in the middle of a lake. It was pretty enough. The hostel we stayed in (Los Amigos) was full of animals and characters. A parrot, four quail, three dogs, a cat, two amicable Irishman, a Sharon Stone-esque Aussie chick called Thea and a whole bunch of 'crayshy' Dutchmen.

We were up early the day after we arrived to visit Tikal. It's the largest classical city of the Mayan civilisation. It's big. Huge in fact. People told us it was big, but until you get there, you don't realise how big. Imagine the list of debtors for the Michael Jackson estate, double it, and you're beginning to get there.

We hired a guide called Donald. We had him all to ourselves. He took us all around the site, telling us about the history and pointing out various fauna and flora. We climbed the vertiginous temples. He showed us bush herbs. We saw monkeys. The sign said they sometimes throw poo at you, but they seemed more interested in swinging about a bit.

But that was two days ago. Now, we're holed up here in our swamp, near the banks of the Rio Dulce. We're here with an amazingly cool American couple – Bryce and Laura – and an adventurous Dutch girl called Frankie. There was a group of Isrealis, but they left early, complaining of mosquitos. What do you expect in a swamp?

Last night, Bryce, Frankie and me crashed a party at another house across the swamp. The three of us got there in our two-man dinghy. We played lots of drinking games and drank lots of rum. I´m not quite sure how we got back again, but come the morning I was back in my bed. Obviously beer scooters still work in swamps.

It's hot. Guatemala is hot. Clothes seem to serve the purpose of soaking up sweat here. If ever there was a country where national nudism would make sense, it's Guatemala. That were if it weren't for the insects. They like to bite exposed flesh.

The entertainment options here in our swamp are:

1. Read
2. Write
3. Play 'Sally's Spa' on your iPod (Rachel only activity)
4. Eat
5. Sleep
6. Kayak out into the lake and swim
7. Drink rum

There is no internet, no TV and no radio. Just the swamp and us.

There is a bartender. He is a Swiss man and he owns the place. He doesn't talk much. Sometimes I catch him staring into space, not moving. Maybe it's the swamp doing strange things to his mind.

The malaria tablets are giving me strange dreams. A few nights ago, I dreamt about Nicky Hilton's house under a shopping mall, an incredible airport atop a mountain in Scotland called Chlorine (the only airport in the world where you gain altitude to land) and Bruce Willis' wife making a big social faux pas in front of George Bush's (black) daughters at Prince Harry's garden party. Who needs TV?

Meanwhile, we wait in our swamp. We are waiting for the border with Honduras to open. A week ago the military staged a peaceful coup, ejecting the President. Everybody seems to have got quite upset about it, so the end result is we can't cross the border until they sort it out. The lady at the travel agent in Livingston (a town only accessible by boat) seems to think it'll take 72 hours. Once that's done, we'll head to the Bay Islands by boat to do some diving.

Until then, it's just us, the insects and the swamp.

Luckily, we've lots of rum.

Aaaar.

PS. Rachel doesn't think it's a swamp. She says it's mangroves, in a rainforest. Personally, I prefer to call it a swamp. It sounds more piratey.

For a whole host more swampy pics, plus some ones of a waterfall we visited and some other places, click here

Day 52 – (200m underneath a mountain near) San Ignacio

2009-07-06T10:11:00.013+10:00

The cave swallowed us whole about two hours ago. Swimming through the entrance, the water coming from deep within the mountain took my breath away. But in the humidity of the Belizean jungle, it was a welcome respite.

It rained heavily last night. The fury of the tropical storm lasted only twenty minutes, but it was intense. Three lightning strikes a stone-throw from the restaurant made us jump as we ate. Luckily, we didn't choose the soup. It turned the main street of San Ignacio to mush (the rain, not the soup).

That night before has turned the cave known as Actun Tunichil Muknal (the 'Cave of the Stone Sepulchre', or 'ATM cave' for short) into an underground river. We wade along the path; sometimes the water is ankle deep, sometimes it comes up to our chests. Other times we can't even feel the ground beneath our feet. Our splashes echo back at us from the inky blackness ahead and behind. There is no light our eyes can use to acclimatise. Without torches, we would surely never get back to daylight.

Martin is our guide. He assures me he has spare batteries. He's like a little Mayan Yoda, weaving a story to accompany our journey. He knows a lot about the Maya. They were religious people, says Martin. They worshiped elemental gods with a fervour that makes the Hillsong congregation look like part-time atheists.

The Maya believed that sacrifices of food and animals would secure them, in return, all they needed to flourish. They believed the gods would provide all they needed to build and maintain their giant cities; far bigger than any in Europe at that time.

We squeeze through another small crevice in the rock wall, and another chamber opens up ahead. Giant stalactite formations hang from above, reaching down to grasp their stalagmite brethren. In thousands of years, perhaps they will finally join hands.

We climb up another ledge, out of the water. Removing our shoes, we tiptoe carefully into a new chamber. Torchlight dances on the walls all around, throwing shapes. Sometimes, you catch a figure dancing in your periphery, or a large animal darting behind a rock. But it's all in your mind.

Martin says the Maya believed that the gods resided in the underworld. They came to this cave – the link between the two worlds – to worship. I imagine how the shadows on the walls would have looked to the Mayan priests, high on natural psychedelics. No wonder they believed the gods lived here.

They brought with them great pots, and prepared meals as offerings. Martin points out the wrecked pottery scattered all around, everywhere, unmoved since the day they were carried in here, a thousand years in the past.

My mind wanders again. I remember Rachel meeting Martin the night before, in a little bar called Orleanitos, just off the square in San Ignacio. We all talked for hours over Jambalaya and rum, listening to the Caribbean lilt of everyone's voices. It feels good to speak English again, Belize's legacy of a British colonial past. They were so friendly, like everyone in this tiny little town. A speck on the map before the border with Guatemala, but oh so inviting. Infectious.

Speaking with the locals and expats, they all say the same thing. San Ignacio is a place where everyone knows everyone. Where everyone takes care of everyone. A place where you go for a haircut, and end up playing football that afternoon with Floyd the barber. Where people you met the day before beep you and wave when they drive past on the street. Where even the drunks stop for a friendly chat. Surrounded by rainforest and fast-flowing rivers, it's a little oasis of Caribbean calm high in the mountains. I can imagine getting stuck here for a while.

Martin is speaking again. Martin tells us as the drought became more pronounced, the Maya became more desperate. The gods had forsaken them. They began to up the stakes. Human sacrifice. He points out a skull on the floor. It's forehead is flattened, done when the noble child was a baby. A hole in it's head shows the killing blow. Martin says there are fourteen such sacrifices in this cave. Seven of them are children.

Nobody knows where the lowland Maya went. They abandoned their cities, their places of worship. Some believe their society fell because of prolonged drought, others due to peasant revolution. Maybe, in seeking the favour of the gods, the full horror of what their society had become, what they had began to do, became apparent. Maybe many Maya simply rejected the deeds their spiritual leaders had begun committing in their name, and left for the hills and a more primitive life.

Now, Martin is telling the story of a young girl; maybe 14, maybe 20. I can't hear exactly. She was an important person, maybe the daughter of a rival city leader, captured during war. She would have been brought down into this cave, probably blindfolded or drugged, knowing her fate.

She would have been ritually killed. An axe to the base of the spine, then another to the head. Another desperate blood offering to the non-responsive Maya gods.

Then Martin shines his torch and there she lies. Her tiny skeleton is splayed out on the floor. Martin explains she was an offering to the rain god, Chaac. Her position is deliberate. As the cave filled with rainwater, her body lay in a shallow pool. She would have looked like she was dancing; a rain dance.

The years in the cave have covered her skeleton with a thin layer of limestone, keeping her safe from decay until the day she was found in 1986. The limestone shimmers in the light. Her entire skeleton looks like it is encrusted with tiny diamonds.

Nobody knows who she was, where she came from. Nobody will ever know her name, or the full horrors she experienced deep within this cave. However, as if for some small recompense, in death nature has gifted her with a beauty that has lasted through the ages. She is the Crystal Maiden, and this is her cave.

View all the St Ignacio photos here

Day 48 – On the run and headed for the border

2009-07-06T10:01:00.013+10:00

Dead dog lying on the side of road, flies partying all around. The border is an hour behind us now. Sticky heat of Belize building, adding to my paranoia. My head is bumping like a road-drill. Dirty, cheap rum poisoning my system. The bus jumps again, riding the “road” like a rubber ball on cobblestones. Brain rattles in my skull, turning my thoughts to mush.

Today is a bad day to give up smoking.

Again, I catch a car behind us. White and gaining fast. Through steamed-up glasses and dirt-smeared bus windows, It looks like the police. Heart jumps again, electricity coursing through my arms. I begin to sweat again. Brain begins to work overtime. Images fly through my brain.

Me being gunned down on the bus. Me being gunned down getting off the bus. Me in the back of the trunk, arms tied down to cramping. Me disappearing into the depths of a Mexican prison. Then, the face of Groovy John disappearing under the water.

Goddamn this heat.

At the border, the heavyset Mexican customs man waved me through without a fuss. I smelled a trap. Standing at the Belizean counter, ten metres away, I kept him in my peripheral, waiting to be jumped from behind. The butt of my gun felt heavy on my thigh, a welcome friend at a troubled time. Just try to stop me! No, no, no. I need to be cool. Be like Fonzie. Eyyyy.

The Belizean man stamped my passport, waved me through. I hurried through the door and onto the first bus I could find. Nobody followed. Are they screwing with me? Waiting for me to relax? I sat at the back, next to the emergency exit.

Groovy John's dying face burns in my vision like a cattle brand. The waters recede and he sinks. Maggot food.

The car is getting closer. I feel for my silver friend. The steel is cool against the maddening heat. I flick the safety. Check for the briefcase under the seat.

Raquel can see my fury. My fear. She knows the trouble we are in. She smiles warmly, but I know she is as scared as me. I squeeze her hand. We go together.

Yesterday, we frolicked in the lakeside. The only guests in an empty hotel. We dived and jumped and splashed. The cool water making us forget ourselves for a moment. We had forever ahead of us. Now so short. Cruel irony.

The car is close now. They are nearly on us. My heart pounds against my ribs. Time for action. Death whispers sweet nothings in my ear, taunting. I go to stand.

The car passes in a cloud of dust. No sirens, no lights, no badges on the side. False alarm again. My heart does a jig of joy. The wet rivers of sweat down my back begin to slowly dry. False alarm.

I sit and breath deeply. Just three hours 'til San Ignacio. We'll know what to do when we get there. Everything will be better there.

The vision of Groovy John still burns like neon in my mind. But he's gone now. He's not here. And here is all that matters now.

Goddamn this heat.

Please note: this is a work of fiction. The trip across the border was mostly uneventful. We are not on the run. I do not have a gun. Rachel has not changed her name to Raquel. We have not killed anyone called Groovy John. I don't even know if there is such a person called Groovy John (it is a cool name though). In fact, we haven't killed anyone (yet). Call off the search party. Thank you for listening. Stay tuned for more adventures after this break.

Day 42 – Tulum

2009-07-06T09:41:00.011+10:00

Back when I was a kid, we used to take Geography classes. Radical new wave teaching, I know, but bear with me. Occasionally, the teacher used to touch briefly on something called “The Greenhouse Effect”. This was cutting edge stuff. He talked about “renewable energy”, “acid rain” and polystyrene cups that didn't contain CFCs. Outside of school though, you only only heard this kind of stuff from dirty, white men with dreads and bra-less women with piercings.

Nowadays, green issues are not just big news, they are also big business. And leisure is no exception to that rule.

We made the decision to leave Playa on Sunday night. It'd been fun, but I'd had my fill of 60 peso Margharitas, cruise ships and souvenir stand owners trying to sell me weed. So we jumped on a bus and headed for Tulum.

Tulum holds the distinction of being the only place in Mexico where you can visit Mayan ruins on the beach. Type 'Tulum' into Google Images. You'll find images of a pale, grey limestone pyramid, framed by palm trees and the turquiose waters of the Carribean Sea. It's picturesque.

Tulum is also famous for cenotes. Cenotes are deep, freshwater holes in the ground. You see, the Yucatan peninsula is basically swiss cheese. When the limestone rose from the sea million years ago, vast networks of underground rivers were created by the retreating waters. As a result, the entire region is dotted with over 5,000 freshwater pools, themselves gateways to sunken caverns that flow for miles and miles. Which you can go diving in. Which we did.

I cannot speak highly enough about it. In all honesty, the prospect of cave diving was something I wasn't sure how to feel about. I'm always one for big fish, and you don't get much life in a cave system. The Pocket Rocket wasn't too sure about it all either, Even less so when we arrived at the dive site in a vehicle best described as the outline of a truck. You see, the entrance to our dive site was basically a hole in the ground only slightly wider than ourselves.

However, as soon as we climbed down the ladder, all doubts evaporated. It became clear why the Mayas considered these 'magical' cenotes to be the lifeblood of their empire. To step into a cenote cave is to drop into a world a good 4-5 degrees cooler than the stifling humidity of the surface. Clear, clear water casts ever shifting light patterns on the stalacmites that drop down from the ceiling. It's a serene place.

We did two dives that day, descending down into a network of sunken caverns and passageways piled on top of each other and filled with all kinds of weird and wonderful shapes and structures. Sometimes we would shine out torches into the gloom, watching the way the shadows would play out against the rock walls. Occasionally, we shut out the lights and hung motionless in the gloom, watching weak shards of distant daylight filter in from above.

Occasionally, we shone our torches into the darkness of bottomless tunnels. One particularly ominous one began with a warning sign embossed with the figure of the Grim Reaper. This particular tunnel had claimed the life of 300 divers. Even pottering around well-explored cenotes like Dos Ojos, it was easy to lose track of where you were, where you'd come from. It's a enticingly deadly world, and a fragile one that I hope will last the test of time and tourism.

Which brings me back nicely to my first point. Where Cancun and Playa are shrines to excess and consumption, Tulum advertises itself as the cutting edge of eco-tourism. However, this is where I tend to get a little cynical.

Which comes first? Deciding to be an eco-resort and making wholesale changes to the way you run your operation; or realising you have a hotel with no electricity or fresh running water, so calling yourself and eco-resort and charging top dollar for the “rustic experience”.

There is something undeniably romantic about the idea of being in a wooden cabana by the shore of the Carribean Sea. All you have is the bright night sky and candlelight for company.

The reality is it's romantic for about ten minutes. After that, spending twenty minutes trying to find your toothbrush in the half-light, trying to sleep in the oppressive humidity and getting eaten alive by mozzies make it hard to see this expensive primitivism as nothing more than a bit of a crock. Oh yeah, and there was an old, naked guy on the clothing-optional beach who insisted on walking around every ten minutes so we could all see his wrinkly, brown bits. Why are 90% of nudists fat, old guys?

Tulum is a lovely place. Gorgeous beach, great ruins and superb diving. In reality though, it's just as touristy as Playa. Luxury backpacking for grown-ups, minus the luxury and the backpackers.

Day 43 - Playa del Carmen

2009-06-25T02:55:00.014+10:00

Chuck, the large fat man from Tennessee, is in the middle of telling his equally fat daughter all about the proud history of WWE wrestling – from across the other side of the beach. Chucks' equally fat, tooth-lacking wife is letting everyone within a nautical mile know that 'a couple more o' dem Margaretas' and 'she gonna git nekkid'. The Mexican reggae band in the back of the bar is launching into yet another version of Bob Marley's 'Don Juarry'. The guy in the souvenir stand (monkey heads carved from coconuts, sombreros, fake Cuban cigars etc) has just tried to sell me weed. In a few hours, I'll witness a woman who truly believes that you can make yourself understood in any language simply by speaking as loudly as possible. Today, clearly, is the day the cruise liners visit.

Playa del Carmen seems to be to Americans what Mallorca is to the English, or Bali is to the Australians. Like it's bolder, brasher cousin one hour north, Cancun, it's serves the purpose of liberating American dollars from American pockets.

Our first glimpse upon arriving late Monday night was the road known as La Quinta, or Fifth Street. It's an indeterminate length of road, lined with the aforementioned souvenir shops (surely a front?), quasi-designer clothing & accessory boutiques, pharmacies, novelty theme restaurants & fast food joints, and tour companies. It's all about as Mexican as sour cream on your nachos.

But then you carry on walking a little further, away from the sunburnt tourists ambling aimlessly up and down the strip, and you find the beach.

And what a beach is it!

For five days, we've simply marvelled at the way the water changes colour during the day. From a calm aquamarine blue in the morning, to a cloudy crystalline azul before dusk. It's always like stepping into the perfect backyard pool. Cool enough to steal you away from the maddening heat of the town, but warm enough to leave your breath in your chest.

Did I mention the bars and clubs? Big, sprawling, multi-level temples of music, spilling out onto the white sand and filled with fire twirlers, sand floors, bar-swings rather than bar-stools and more thatch than 1980s Britain. Beach as bro. Here, see for yourself.

Add to the mix sand so soft you could sift it through gauze, and you've got a recipe for lazin'. Which is pretty much what we've done. The first day we headed to the supermarket for a couple of fat steaks and a nice bottle of Tanqueray. After we'd polished that off, we made the short twenty metre trip to dive into the water.

On Day 3, we decided twenty metres was a little too far. So we moved into the place across the road, which was only ten metres and had a better view.

Yep, a good beach will forgive a lot.

All the Playa photos are here

Day 36 - Oaxaca

2009-06-25T02:37:00.020+10:00

In 1519, a ruthless Spanish military leader named Hernan Cortes landed on the North East coast of modern Mexico with a big, hairy, audacious goal. He sought conquest of the 'New World' and to claim her gold for Spain. This latter-day Goldmember brought with him 550 men (well, Spaniards), horses, attack dogs and 1 cannon. His first act was to burn all the expeditions' ships. Clearly this pale, bearded Spaniard was no Len Shackleton.

At the time of his arrival, the population of Europe was 6 million. The total population of the lands he sought to conquer was over 25 million.

Despite the enormity of the task facing him, Cortes had three distinct advantages. The first was guns. The native tribes lived in a land plentiful in gold, but lacking steel. Their warriors fought only with spears and slings.

The second advantage was germs. The Spanish brought with them, flowing through their veins, all manner of virulent strains of European disease. These were diseases unknown to the New World, and they would wipe out an estimated 80% of the native population in the years to come.

The third, and perhaps most telling of all advantages, was Cortes himself. Moctezuma - the Emperor of the most powerful of the New World empires, the Aztecs – was a superstitious man. 1519 also happened to be the predicted date for the return of the god Quetzalcoatl, who scripture described as a pale, bearded figure (the Incas themselves were mostly hairless).

And so unfolded historys' greatest 'Sliding Doors' moment. Right place, right time (or wrong place, wrong time if you happened to be a native).

When Moctezuma was told that a pale, bearded figure, supported by legions of unknown creatures, had landed that fateful day, he chose not to send a legion to destroy them as they put feet on dry land. He did not ambush them whilst they slept their first, new night in the deep jungle. Instead, he sent an envoy to invite them to join him in his palace.

It was to be the mistake that defined the future of a continent. Cortes, as ruthless as ever, took the emperor hostage. Over the years that followed, he subjugated an entire continent, by sword, alliance and sheer will. He converted most to Catholicism. He enslaved those who failed to support him. He rewrote the history books, building Spanish churches atop existing native temples and ziggurats. All the gold the New World possessed became his. His role in history today is defined by his actions; the Conquistador.

The overriding flavor of Oaxaca (Wa-ha-ka) is history. History and food. We arrived here in the early morning, following a long, smelly, six-hour,overnight bus trip down from Mexico City. In the dawn light, the town looked like something from a spaghetti western. Lots of whitewashed, plastered walls fallen into disrepair and crumbling all around. The only thing which spoilt the image were the lush green mountains encircling the town.

A walk exposed the 'town' for what it really is, a city. Oaxaca the city is, fittingly, the capital of Oaxaca the region. It's a picture postcard place, a thin veneer of history covering what is a fairly modern city. It's very low-rise too. There are few buildings, if any, greater than two stories.

It's known throughout Mexico for it's culinary standing. Dishes such a dark, chocolaty mole, a light string cheese called quesillo, tequila-esque firewater mezcal and salted, lime crickets called chapulines are all celeberated as Oaxacan staples. In fact, you can't walk around a corner without spotting some small restaurant nestled in an inner courtyard, or up atop of a roof. It's a foodies dream and, for the record, the crickets simply taste salty.

After the 24/7 spin cycle of Mexico City, Oaxaca has been an opportunity to take it down a notch. We've wandered down her streets, marvelled at grand old stand-stone buildings and sauntered through the markets for which the city is also known. We took a particularly memorable, long, dusty trip into the mountains to an amazing place called Hierve el Agua. It's basically the site of hot (read, tepid) springs, where you can sit in a mineral-rich pool on the edge of a cliff and survey the valleys below. What makes it especially amazing is seeing where the calcium-rich waters have flowed down the rock, leaving an eerie, white ghost of a waterfall suspended motionless for eternity.

However, at the risk of continuing the history lesson and boring everyone, it's hard not to be in Oaxaca and soak up the past. It's everywhere. It's in the faces of the people, the food that comes across your table, the museums all around town and, most of all, the buildings.

In ancient times, the land around Oaxaca gave rise to one of the most potent empires of the time. The Zapotecas rose to prominence in 500AD. Later, they built their impressive capital, Monte Alban. This city, which ruled over the surrounding villages for over 1300 years before mysteriously being abandoned, is an amazing place. High on a hilltop, it truly shudders the mind to conceive of the effort that went into building the city, especially when you realise they sheered the top off a mountain to do it.

It makes your realise that for all our technology, our modern day smarts, maybe we're not as clever as we think (especially given recent economic events). After all, when was the last time you heard of a group of people clearing an entire mountaintop using only basic tools, before building a city that would endure for over 1300 years? It puts those of us who struggle to assemble Ikea furniture to shame.

You'll be happy to know the Spanish is coming on nicely, with only three glaring oversights. Rachel managed to wander around for most of our night out in Mexico City telling the many Mexican men she was chatting with I was her hermano (brother) rather than esposo (husband). It made for some odd faces when I gave her a kiss a bit later in the evening. Walking down the road in Oaxaca she rather abruptly told an old man selling native artwork no me gusta (I don't like it), rather than the more polite no quiero (I don't want it). However, the guff of the month probably goes to me for telling a chambermaid this pillow is my wife, rather than this pillow is my wife's.

Still, would have made for an interesting wedding.

All the Oaxaca snaps son aqui

Day 30 - Mexico City

2009-06-14T02:57:00.023+10:00

The scene: A small movie producers' office in Hollywood. The decor is old and worn, and wallpaper is peeling from the walls. A window is open and a hot wind occasionally blows the thin curtain inside the room. A man is sat at a desk. His name is Stan and he is a movie producer. Soon, a second man joins him, sitting opposite him. His name is Laurie. He is a writer. They begin to talk.

Laurie:I have an idea for a movie!
Stan (looking up from his desk): Great! It's been a while Laurie. I was beginning to worry. You wanna coffee?
Laurie: No, I had one at Starbucks on the way.
Stan (pressing the intercom): Candy, get me a coffee, will ya. Now Laurie, tell me all about it.
Laurie: Well, it's set in Mexico City....
Stan (interrupting): Mexico City! Mexico City? Seriously, who sets a movie in Mexico City?
Laurie: Have you ever been?
Stan: Well, no. It's far too dangerous. Aren't there drug wars there? And what about that pig flu?
Laurie: No, no, you've got it all wrong. Mexico City is massively underrated. It's an amazing place.
Stan: Sure, but for a movie?
Laurie: Yeh! Sure! It's got more history than it knows what to do with. The place is an amazing historical city. It's completely unique, like no other city. And the people are some of the most friendly you'll ever meet in a city of 20 million plus. As far as dangerous goes, sure if you go walking into the wrong area of town at 3am you're in trouble. Other than that, it's no more dangerous than any other big city, I tells ya! As for swine flu, I've never heard such a bunch of hot air...
Stan: Really? But the newspapers...

Laurie: Forget the papers. Swine flu has been blown out of all proportion, and Mexico City is the right place to shoot this film. If you can handle a little pollution, it's got everything a film crew will need. Great food, superb locations and the best bit Laurie? It's cheap!

Laurie: That I like, Stan! So what's the film about?
Stan: Well, it's about people, really. It's about a moment in life when the chemistry between a group of strangers is simply perfect, and something unique comes along for one brilliant minute. It burns brightly and then, just as quickly as it came, it's gone.
Laurie: Break it down for me Stan.
Stan: It's about a group of travellers who come together at a hostel in...
Laurie: ...Mexico City...
Stan: ...right, and for four brilliant days, everything just clicks.
Laurie: Clicks?
Stan: Yeh, you know. The mix of people is right. The setting is right. Everything just works and what results is...
Laurie: A Hollywood blockbuster!
Stan: Maybe, Laurie. This film is not just about wandering around one of the biggest cities in the world, taking in the sites. It's not just about seeing the Zocalo, or learning the history of a city that is over 500 years old. It's not just about partying into the wee hours of the morning, or enjoying a beer on a rooftop overlooking the Cathedral. It's also about great conversation, and living for the moment with a group of people that have never met before – and may never again - but in the here and now, manage to strike up a vibe between themselves.
Laurie: Who are we talking about here?
Stan: I'm glad you asked. Let me tell you about the characters.
Laurie: Great! Good characters sell!
Stan: And these are real people, Laurie! First we have Gerry.
Laurie: Gerry?
Stan: Well, Gerraldo actually. He's a pivotal character in the whole story. He's a bartender by day and runs the entertainment at the hostel. Gerraldo is the single most connected man you'll ever meet in your life. He's always got a smile on his face and has more energy than a supernova. He's a little Mexican energizer bunny. Seriously Laurie, the audience won't be able to help themselves but love him!
Laurie: I like him already! Hey! Why not give him a partner in crime?
Stan: I'm already ahead of you, Laurie. I've given him a partner in crime alright. One of the most unexpected ones you can imagine!
Laurie: Stan, you're turning me on.

Stan: Steady Laurie. Meet Viktor! He's a baby faced Swede...

Laurie: Not a Dane?
Stan: No, Swede. He's a baby-faced, 23 year old Swede with a quirky sense of humour and dead pan delivery that the audience will never see coming. He's a one-man show wrapped in a Legend and pumped full of funny-juice. Put him with Gerraldo and watch the sparks fly!
Laurie: Whoops, Stan. I nearly just fell of my chair.
Stan: Next, we've got a loud, opinionated, brash American...
Laurie: Hmmm. I'm not sure on that, Stan. L.O.B Americans haven't tested well since Tom Arnold divorced Rosanne.
Stan: I hear ya, Laurie, but there's a twist.
Laurie: A twist?
Stan: It's all a put on! Matt is one of the most intelligent, well travelled and goddamn funny men you'll ever meet. He's like an Oracle wrapped in a bearded American tourist costume. But, if you take the time to look past the contradictory exterior, you'll find one of life's great conversationalists. The audience will love the banter between him and Sam!
Laurie: Who's Sam?
Stan: Sam's...how do the limies say it...Sam's a geezer! He's the most honest man in the world. Wanna know how it is, ask Sam. Unfortunately we'll have to write him out early...
Laurie: That's a shame.
Stan: Yeh, we'll do a big, teary scene where the whole 'crew' watches him disappear into the sunset one evening...
Laurie: I hate schmaltz.
Stan:...or not, whatever you prefer.

Laurie. Good. Who else we got?

Stan: Well, there's Neil and JP; two Doncaster boys on a mission to shennanigan their way around the world.
Laurie: Ah, people love a rogue.
Stan: They sure do, Laurie. There's even a comedy story about two Mexican girls who befriend the pair and drag them – and everyone else - back to their apartment. Later, they find out that they are not only sisters, but one of them unknowingly had a two-month relationship with her own father!*
Laurie: It'll sell well in Texas then...
Stan: Add to the mix a pair of spunk-filled young bucks called Rob and Alex...
Laurie: Two for the young girls, eh?
Stan: And Darcy, one of the sassiest Irish lasses your every likely to set your eyes on...
Laurie: To keep the boys interested!
Stan: ...and I do believe we have...
Laurie: ...a classic road movie! It's got the lot! Fun, sex, danger, great dialogue, super characters! I love it! What are we gonna call it?
Stan: I was thinking From Dusk Til Dawn?
Laurie: How about The Taking of Mexico City?
Stan: Errr, how about we worry about names later?
Laurie: Good call, let's celebrate with a drink.
Stan: What happened to your coffee anyway?
Laurie: Pfft. I don't even have a secretary. Tequila?
Stan: It's a bit early in the day...
Laurie: Don't be that guy, Stan.
Stan: Oh, alright.
Laurie: Good job, Stan. Any chance of a sequel?
Stan (smiling): I doubt it, but one can only hope, Laurie. One can only hope....

Click here for all the Mexico City photos

* Yep, you heard right. Now, this is either a horrible act of bad luck, or a great piece of fiction from the Mexican lady in question. Regardless, the story goes that our heroine – we'll call her Lolita – decided to try her hand at internet dating. Eventually, she met a English guy online. After a period of exchanging emails, they decided to meet up. Despite a decent age gap, all went well and they decided to give the relationship a go. After living together for two months, Lolita decided the time was right to introduce her new beau to her mother. It was at this point that the awful truth came out; the doting Englishman with whom Lolita was so deeply in love with was in fact her biological father. A terrible case of bad luck, or a great exercise in storytelling? It makes no difference. The cherry on top of this excellent tale (delivered during a particularly memorable Saturday night) is as part of the whole odd mess, Lolita found out about her aforementioned and previously undiscovered sister. And you thought you had an odd family situation...

Photos now up!

2009-06-10T12:34:00.007+10:00

What would Gosciny be without Uderzo? Terry Pratchett without Paul Kidby? Da Vinci without...er...da Vinci?

Yes, well, they say a picture paints a thousand words. So, with the help of a squiffy new ickle wickle netbook courtesy of my very generous Dad, Rach has now made good headway in getting up-to-date with the photos from the trip.

From now on, we´re aiming to make sure we can have photos embedded in the text of the blogs, as well as a link at the end of each entry.

Well see how long that lasts....

San Francisco
Los Angeles
Las Vegas
New York
Miami

Day 26 - South Beach, Miami (bang bang)

2009-06-03T06:38:00.021+10:00

We seem to be stuck in an endless cycle of rain and shine.

In the morning the sun comes along, allowing Rachel and I to jog up the beach and back. It's the first regular exercise we've had for three weeks. It hurts, but it feels good.

It's soon followed by the humidity. It increases slowly until you can almost the droplets materialise in the air. Fish start to have problems working out where the sea ends.

Then comes the storm. Furious and tropical, it spews forth torrents of water that gush down roofs and windows. Tourists shelter in shop doors and under awnings, stranded. Eventually, the gutters overflow and water covers the pavements. It's like the weather equivalent of a close quarters chat with Jonathan Ross at a loud party.

Then, thirty minutes later, it all stops and the cycle starts again.

Miami is the first place we've stayed in a hostel. The Deco Walk Hostel is literally a drunken stumble from South Beach, right in the thick of the action. It has it's own bar, rooftop jacuzzi, cable TV and everything else you could possibly need.

The day we arrived - Sunday - there was a fug hanging over everyone though. Turned out it was the detrious from a big Saturday night. Alas, it failed to lift. I'm told hostels are all about who you meet, and hence very hit and miss. This one looked great, but had all excitement of Mark Farina at 4am.

So, what have we actually done? Not much. We'd considered visiting the Everglades, but they're five hours away. Same goes for the Kennedy Space Center. That's three hours north. Key West is a good six hours south. So, instead we've taken the time to relax and soak it all up. After the 24/7 of New York, we both needed it. We've just hung around listening to everyone speaking Spanish more often than English, marvelling at the 50s art deco decor and doing the usual people/ peacock watching thing

The good news is the weather came good. We've spent time getting acquainted with the beach, which is a magnificent stretch of sand that stretches as far as the eye can see. We hired a scooter and went exploring. I'm happy to report that Rachel's Gourmet Tour has begun in earnest.

As a generalisation, America is not a place known for its' food (Samuel's home cooking aside). The Urth Cafe in LA was very tasty indeed, and we had some good scran in NY. However, generally the standard fare has been poor.

Miami has redressed that. On Monday, we had a set lunch at an Argentinian restaurant. Two fat, juicy steaks packed with more flavour than the Public Enemy back catalogue. There's nothing like eating your first steak in a while to kick start the digestive system.

Last night, we took a recommendation and headed to a Cuban Diner called Puerto Sagua. It was the first time I've had Cuban food, but it won't be the last. Lots of slow cooked meats and strangely cooked fruit that look kinda familiar, but not really.

In between the endless downtime, we've had a chance to think about our next stop. The USA has been amazing, but we both know it's not indicative of how we'll be travelling over the next 11 months. Hotels in the middle of town and eating out more often that not is not backpacking. Mexico City marks the beginning of 'proper' travelling.

It's a little bit scary. A big, big city with a reputation for rawness. A language we don't really speak well. A unknown road ahead - all we know is we need to be in Guatemala City in 12 months, the rest is up to us.

But then again, that's the whole point of the exercise, right?

Click here for all the Miami photos

Day 17 - Big Apple-tastic

2009-06-01T09:43:00.030+10:00

It's 3am. The bar we are in is a little less expensive looking than the last one, which was apparently used for the engagement party scene in Sex and the City: The Movie. This one is called The Maritime. Apparently it used to be a sailors' bar. It's in the Meat Packing district.

I know all this because of Daniel. Daniel, as well as being the friendliest Aussie in New York and landscape gardener to the stars, is a font of knowledge. Daniel has been kind enough to take us under his wing for tonight.

This is our third night in New York. From the moment the subway spat us out into the marble splendour of Grand Central station, our jaws have been permanently resting on the ends of our shoes. We've seen the Statue of Liberty from the Staten Island ferry. We've eaten in Chinatown and Little Italy. We've drank in Greenwich Village and Soho (at a bar called Ear, where they have two of the most friendly/ raucus Irish waitresses on Manhattan Island. Universal Truth #1: The friendliest person in a bar is usually Irish). We've taken pics at Time Square, wolfed down a hot dog on Broadway and gone jogging in the amazing Central Park.

However, tonight is different. Tonight Daniel is showing and telling us the things about New York that those who don't live here normally don't get to see.

Daniel says it's easy to spot a tourist in New York. They're usually the ones looking up and going 'wow'. That's because New York is amazing. It's without doubt the definitive template for any global city. You walk around a quiet, unsuspecting corner and, oh yeah, there's the Chrysler building. Or stroll down the street and, well, wouldn't you know it, there's Wall Street (which, by the way, nothing more than a wide lane at best). You get the picture. Walking around New York is like being in a permanent state of deja vu.

But that's not what we're talking about tonight. Currently, we are talking about the myths people have about New York.

Myth #1: New Yorkers are rude
New Yorkers are, on the whole, pretty friendly and polite. Approach someone asking for directions, and you'll get very clear and considered advice. Talk to someone in a bar and you'll end up in a conversation. Sure, New Yorkers might not give you ten minutes, but you'll get a very informative two.

Myth #2: New York is a concrete jungle
New York is filled with some of the most amazing buildings I've ever seen. Gothic, baroque, art deco, big and brown with curly bits on the top. Countless buildings you just know you'd love to call home, but most likely never will. In the middle of it all is Central Park, which is the biggest and finest oasis of calm I have ever seen inside a city.

Myth #3: New York is hard to find your way around
It's the most logical road system I've ever seen. It's easier than getting Greta Scacchi to do a nude scene. It makes all other city planning look like the work of an 11-year old with Parkinsons.

Myth #4: New York is dangerous
I just didn't see it. New York has its' share of crazies, but there are police everywhere. Even travelling the subway in the early morning didn't feel anything but safe.

Myth #5: New York is expensive
If you choose to live there, Daniel tells me you're going to be paying $2,000 - $3,000/ month+ for a studio apartment in Manhattan. However, unless you are deliberately seeking out the latest ultra minimalist bar owned by Madonnas' Kaballah stylist, I'd suggest that dollar-for-dollar it's not that much pricier than Sydney.

However, pretty much everything else you've heard about New York is true. The shopping is amazing. You can get pretty much anything you need at any time of day or night. The people have got a certain style and class about them you don't get elsewhere. Everyone knows exactly what they are about (but maybe that's because they never get the time to think about it too much). You really will never have enough time to see everything.

In a few days, lying on the beach in Miami, I'll realise how much New York took out of me. Being in New York is exhausting. Living there even more so. It's not until you leave you realise how much. New York needs to be shown respect. It's a 'chew you up and spit you out' kinda city. It should come with a sticker that says 'Handle with Extreme Care'.

All that doesn't matter now though. I'm in The Maritime. I've discovered my new favourite gin (Hendricks). The three guys on the pool table have been joined by a leggy brunette, creating an entertaining little competitive situation to my left. It's my round. It's also only 3am. And 3am in New York is the equivalent of 11pm anywhere else.

What a city.

Click here for New York photos

Day 14 - Sin City

2009-05-25T15:28:00.007+10:00

What do you give someone who has everything? Las Vegas.

Have you ever had one of those moments of sublime people-watching that keeps you entertained better than any Hollywood movie could? You know, one of those times when you are sat in a cafe, or pub, or wherever. You spot some minor drama happening nearby and for the duration, you are enthralled. Well, that's what Las Vegas is like 24/7.

From the moment you drive out of the empty, featureless Nevada desert up onto The Strip, you are under sensory attack. Flashing neon stretches into the distance. Giant monolithic hotels line the road, each broadcasting its' own over-the-top theme. You want the Statue of Liberty? It's there on the left. The Eiffel Tower? To the right. Arc de Triomphe? Straight ahead. It's a one-country shrine to excess.

But the first night we stepped out, it wasn't the neon that defined Vegas. It's the people. Maybe it's the heat that does it, dry and in stark contrast to the air conditioned casino interiors. It makes people loco.

The streets of The Strip are like the bastard son of MTV Spring Break and Patpong, Thailand. Pneumatic-breasted barbie dolls of indeterminate age jostle on the sidewalks with packs of college jocks, whooping and high-fiving as they go. Flocksof Mexicans hand out cards offering cheap sex to whoever wants it. Old and young pour forth from convenience stores, fast food joints and roadside bars, novelty oversize cocktails glasses in hand.

Occasionally, it all gets too much. You have to dash back into a casino to gain respite. But then, even in the early hours of the morning, you are assailed by endless halls of tables and slot machines, never-endind shopping malls and the most weird and wonderful things you could ever imagine seeing under the roof of a hotel (lions? roller coasters? the Trevi Fountain? Yep).

I am really struggling to get it all into a post that doesn't read like an chapter of War and Peace. Vegas is nuts. Brian, a fellow poker at my table in Planet Hollywood last night, told me the average loss per person in Las Vegas is $6,000. It seems unbelievable, but look around and the evidence is everywhere.

I'm glad we're only here for three days. Any more and I think it would begin to eat at the soul. If Roman Emperors could be brought forward in time to Vegas, they would see it for what it is. It's an orgy. Pure and simple.

Photos to follow, as soon as we can get access to a reasonably-priced internet cafe.

Click here for the Las Vegas photos

Day 10 - The City of Angels

2009-05-20T16:16:00.008+10:00

Ten days between blogs? Shocking oversight. Shame on me.

How do you compare two cities like San Francisco and Los Angeles? Well, let me give it a whirl.

First things first; context. The missus and I arrived in San Fran greener than a leprechauns' underpants. To the hardened traveller we probably looked as out of place as Mormons in a strip club. We knew no-one. We did the tourist things, like Alcatraz (cool, but one dimensional), biking the Golden Gate (brill but lots of hills) and getting fleeced by a Napolitean restaurant in North Beach.

San Fran is a seriously cool city. Its all impossibly steep streets, buildings with more character than Alec Guiness' resume and dingy little bars that positively order you to write poetry about showgirls and absinthe. It's also chockers with homeless people. Some are friendly, others crazy. We chatted to Jason one night about why he was writing Bruce Springsteen lyrics on the road. Still not entirely sure why.

I've heard it compared to Sydney. I don't see it. It's more like Melbourne with a huge bay. Like Melbourne, it's also a city that feels like the best bits are just out of reach. It's a city for living in, not visiting.

So, we drove down to LA. Along the way, we saw many faces of California. Huge sweeping cliffs. Low slung and windswept beaches, inhabited by elephant seals the size of your car. Redwood forests hiding Bigfoot, maybe. Then, two days and the best meal of the trip so far, we entered the Worlds' Entertainment Center. The city of freeways. LA.

LA is big. Seriously big. It sprawls across the land like a roman orgy. It not pretty or organized. Don't even consider not owning a car here. It's like someone took the idea for a city, plonked it in the middle of the desert and then flattened it out with a giant spatula.

And the contradictions! Fast food joints line the road in every less fortunate neighbourhood (no wonder obesity is a problem when the only viable economic option for so many is processed junk), whilst the opulence of Beverly Hills and Bel Air is astouding for both the scale and frequency. There is some serious cash in this town. Make it here and you've made it everywhere.

By any measure LA should be a vile pimple on the bum of humanity. But it's not.

Standing in the Hollywood Hills, staring into the haze below, I realized there's "something" about LA. The weather is always perfect. Amongst the landfill of broken dreams there are plenty that came true. It's full of some very cool, kind and damned talentedcreativecleversmart people. Sure, it's showy and everyone is a little too self aware. However, for all the new age hocus pocus, I think I get it.

Sat in the park, joining in the free yoga class, I came to the conclusion that LA is about "being". Be whatever you want. Be all you can be. You might not get there, but at least you aimed for the stars. I like that attitude. It sure beats tall poppy.

Then again, it may something to do with the company. As well as my esteemed travel companion, we've stayed at the (amazing) home of two of the most generous people you'll find. Ian and Samuel have been kinder than we have any right to expect. It's always more enjoyable to experience a city in the company of people who know it well. Even moreso when they are a pair of solid gold Rockstars.

Maybe one city really is better than the other. Who cares? Like the Melbourne vs Sydney debate, it's pointless. Let me instead just summarize it this way; we're off to a flier :)

Click here for LA photos

Day 1 - San Francisco

2009-05-10T17:19:00.006+10:00

American customs are supposed to be hard. That's what they say. They're supposed to interrogate you to within an inch of your life, make you feel like you have the GDP of Columbia up your bottom and a machine gun in your backpack. What they're not supposed to do is wave you through with a cheery smile and a "have a nice day". But they did.

Did I mention we got upgraded to business class? It's been quite an amazing few days.

From the experience of finishing work for a whole year to finally realizing you're not coming back this way for some time. Saying goodbye and trying to get your head around it all. It's been like trying to follow what the 'ell Russell Brand is 'awn abowt.

During the train ride into San Francisco, I couldn't quite grasp the surrealness of the situation. Like Peter Kay and garlic bread: San? Francisco? San Francisco?

So, we went for a walk. We stumbled upon a Taiwanese Barber shop quintet in Union Square and munched on Taiwanese tamales (aren't tamales Mexican?). We got accosted into buying almond chocolate brittle at the Port of SF (not really that hard a sell, if I'm honest). We followed the maddening tourist crowd to Fishermans Wharf to get our accents mimicked by a pneumatic breasted grandma in a jewellery shop with more energy than the national grid. We watched 300kg seals bark at each other from pontoons. We chatted to a yoga teaching space cadet called Amanda in a small bar on the water. She thought Australia was "totally cool", and to show it told us "Nicole Kidman".

On the way back we did some grocery shopping. Why would anyone ever need to buy a small bucket of butter?

By 7pm, it was all too much. Back at the Hotel Frank, it was all I could do to eat dinner before jetlag claimed me. Alas, there was to be no Saturday night fever for Stu. At least, that's what I thought.

Bless my bungled body clock. It's just decided that midnight looks enough like morning to justify a wake up call. The question now has become; is it time to hit the town? Hmmm.

Click here for all the SF photos

Travelling out of control

2009-04-15T09:12:00.017+10:00

I went for dinner last night at Flying Fajita Sisters (great food!) with three lovely ladies - the always good value Martha Bedggood, half-woman/ half-Care Bear Clare Munro and, of course, the delectable Mrs Bell herself. We had Mexican. It were fantastico.

There was a grand purpose to our meal. We were there to discuss our itinerary, aptly enough, for Mexico.

You see, one of the things I've come to love about our upcoming trip is the company. We'll be meeting friends along the way! It's a bit like a non-competitive version of The Amazing Race, only without the "Shucks! Why can't you speak English?!" Americans (or, thankfully for Jenni, the little people :P)

So far, our meet-ups look like this:

We'll be seing everyone's favourite Pocket Rocket, Ian, in LA
Meeting up with Marf and Clare-Bear in Mexico
Potentially climbing Macchu Picchu with Mum (assuming she doesn't uncover the long-lost family fortune doing Geneaology in Galway and "do one")
Getting down with Steeeeevie and Jenni-WOW! in Buenos Aires
Doing the Rio thing with Tom & Irenne
...plus, whomever else can swing it to meet us along the way.

Hence, the dinner. We needed to sort out the fine print around where & when we were going to meet up in Mexico.

Now, I expected the conversation to go something like this;

Stewart: Right, we need to agree a rendez-vous target drop-zone.
Martha: Affirmative Red Leader
Stewart: Ten-four team. Solutions?
Clare: Meet Cancun Airport at 0-eighteen hundred on the 4th June SIR!
Rachel: From there proceed directly to Fun Mode post-haste SIR!
Stewart: A fine solution. Are we all in agreement? Confirmed. Next on the agenda; what beer should we drink?

Instead, what happened was more like this:

Stewart: Right-ho ladies, let's work out when we're going to meet, so we can get flights booked. Okay?
Rachel: Oooo look! They've got Tamales on the menu. I saw a program about that on Lonely Planet.
Clare: Yeh, I love that little English guy on it. He's funny.
Martha: But scruffy! He needs his eyebrows done badly. Honestly, I spoke to one of my clients who's done Tumul. She said the beaches were just amaaaaaaazing.
Rachel: Ooo! Ooo! Cocktails on the beach!
Clare: I think his name is Ian Wright?
Martha: Who? My client?
Clare: No, the presenter.
Rachel: Yeh yeh! I remember seeing one program where he ate a bulls' eye.
Martha: Ewwww. Gross. I’ve put some dodgy things in my mouth in my time time but…
Clare: Anyone fancy sangria?
Martha: Ooo. Go on then luv.

I guess everyone goes travelling for different reasons.

For me, it's all about the things I'm going to do. I loved it when we did a scuba liveaboard, so the prospect of going scuba diving in Honduras or diving a cenotes floats my boat. I'm positively giddy about going caving in Belize. I'm struggling not to drop my bacon sandwich when someone mentions going to see a Boca Juniors game in Buenos Aires. I like to plan this stuff in advance.

Rachel, on t'other hand, dissolves into a glutinous mess on the floor at the prospect of the myriad of new dishes she’ll be encountering. She's what I'd call a ‘Gourmet Traveller’.

My guess is Marfie is all about the beaches and the relaxation. She strikes me as a five-star flashpacker.

Clare? She's an old hand when it comes to travelling, having been halfway around Africa a couple of years back.

Mum has already told me that there is no way she's going anywhere near a hotel that doesn't have running water and a flushing (gold plated?) toilet. She’d prefer her Macchu Picchu trail porter to give piggy-backs.

Stevie's goal, I imagine, will be to "get involved". If there is a fun to be had, he'll be into it like a fat kid with a cupcake. I plan to slipstream him Lewis Hamilton-stylee.

So, what was the outcome of last nights’ efforts?

Well, measuring in terms of concrete outcomes, probably not that much. We now know we need to fly into Cancun airport, rather than Mexico City. We have a vague plan of staying in Tumul before heading south. We agreed that we should drink lots of Coronas.

However, I found myself waking up this morning with a grin like a Chesire Cat. I am getting majorly excited. I’m like a reverse parking indicator - beep…………..beep………..beep…...beep…beep..beep.beepbeepbeep! - the closer I get to departure day, the more giddy I’m becoming.

I mean today, I found myself singing “Born Free” whilst walking through the office.

Most of all, I find myself really beginning to like my new state of mind. Others’ seem to prefer it too. I am happy Stuie. Friend to small children. Petter of puppies. Smeller of roses. King of Positivity. I'm feeling more and more like someone I'd like to spend time with.

So, to plan or not to plan? To do or to eat? Beach or beaten path? Get Involved or Watch From the Sidelines? I’m not sure there is a right or a wrong. I don’t feel the need to call it. I’m loving the idea of taking each moment as it comes.

As I was lying in bed last night, Rachel read me a passage from her book Eat Pray Love. It’s basically about a woman who is a control freak. She's miserable and lost in life. She visits a Buddhist monk. He tries to persuade her to slow down, to let go.

His advice is, “Sit quietly. Cease your relentless participation. Simply watch what happens…Why are you so sure that your micro-management of every moment in the whole world is so essential? Why don’t you just let it be?”

Wow. I’m seriously considering getting that put on a t-shirt.

15 days to go...

What kind of travellers are you lot? Got any advice?

Packing

2009-04-08T11:06:00.022+10:00

Apparently, moving house is one of the more stressful events of your life. So where does concentrating all your worldy possessions into a 75L backpack sit in that?

I started off by making a list. I included all the stuff I considered essential. Clothes I love to wear, items I love to use. A nice jacket, a couple of pairs of jeans, three smart shirts, a bunch of great t-shirts, two pairs of smart shoes, workout gear, 4 or 5 great books, 3 or 4 of my favourite Spurs tops, signed picture of Scarlet Johanssen...blah blah blah.

I hung it on the fridge (the list, not the signed photo). I considered it to be a good list. I did look upon it and declare it Righteous. Spartan enough to suit my new flighty life, yet comprehensive enough to enable me to blend in with the most downtrodden of degenerates or most sophisticated of San Francisco celebrity soirees.

Of course, then Taz came over and proceeded to rip it to shreds.

As many will know, Taz has recently (well, last year) returned from his own round the world trip. He is a Man Of The World. He is hardcore. He can grow a beard with little grey flecks in it that makes him look like a cross between Sean Connery and Grissly Adams (see photo) .

Taz is the kind of traveller who needs no dorm bed. He sleeps in cars! He hitchhikes! He eats gravel for breakfast and swims to Ellis Island to save on the ferry fare! Taz is a commando backpacker. Rumour has it he'd sleep on a bed of nails if it would save him enough money for an extra latte and a bag of M&Ms in Times Square.

"You won't need nice shoes," commented my well-travelled chum, "Forget the fancy jacket. Ditch one pair of jeans. One pair of underpants will last four days (front, back, back-to-front front and then back-to-front back, apparently). Nobody needs more than two t-shirts. I'll mind the signed photo (eh?)"... on and on he went.

I listened to all he had to say. I considered the wealth of practical experience he brought to the table. I saw his advice reflected in every travel book I'd read.

Of course, I refused accept a thing he said.

That is until Rachel and I did a trial pack the other night. The reality is you can't get that much into a pack.

So, much as it pains me, I shall be taking Taz's advice. I shall become Mr Minimal. I'm going to become the luggage-lugging equivalent of the space between tracks in a Kraftwerk album. There will not be a city or town on the planet I will not be capable of leaving in less than 10 minutes (how James Bond is that!).

I refuse, however, to wear my pants backwards.

21 days to go...